


A Clash of Titans

by King_Of_Kingz



Series: The King of Winters [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Battle of the Bells, Battle of the Trident, Epic Battles, F/M, Magic, Starks vs Targaryens, The King in The North, The North Remembers (ASoIaF), The Old Gods - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:54:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 80,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23332702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/King_Of_Kingz/pseuds/King_Of_Kingz
Summary: 'The Strength of the Wolf maybe the pack, but the lone wolf is certainly the baddest one. And the Dragons who made him one will feel the wrath of the Lone Wolf.'The Rebellion never happened and Rhaegar Targaryen rules the Seven Kingdoms with his right, setting aside his father. But what he didn't took into the account was the one big mistake he'd done in the past, leaving an unfinished business which would trouble him for the rest of his days.Eight years after the murder of his family the son of Eddard Stark and Ashara Dayne returns home with a broken heart and a new found debt to pay the Targaryens.
Relationships: Allyria Dayne/Beric Dondarrion, Andrew Stark/Argella Durrandon, Arianne Martell/Jon Snow, Ashara Dayne/Ned Stark, Daenerys Targaryen/Aurane Waters, Daenerys Targaryen/Willas Tyrell, Gendry Waters/Original Female Characters, Jon Arryn/Lysa Tully Arryn, Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand, Original Male Characters/Original Female Characters, Rhaegar Targaryen/Lyanna Stark, Robert Baratheon/Cersei Lannister
Series: The King of Winters [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677958
Comments: 249
Kudos: 174





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all I hope everyone is safe. These are troubled times so please be safe. Let's hope that our world will get past the hard times soon enough. 
> 
> So here is part 3 of my story, The King of Winters. Sorry for the long delay. My device got messed up and so I couldn't write more earlier. I lost my old account with the device as well so I thought I would continue the story here because I didn't want to disappoint you guys by leaving it hanging. So if there are still someone who's interested in reading this story, I hope you like the chapter.

_**Jorah** _

The most perilous part of the voyage was the last. The Redwyne Straits were swarming with longships, as they had been warned in King's Landing. With the main strength of the Arbor's fleet inland in the port of Oldtown, the few sellsword ships with the direwolf banner streaming from their masts had been attacking every enemy shipping bound for Oldtown to join forces with the Redwyne and Hightower navy.

Thrice longships were sighted by the crow's nest. Two were well astern, however, and the royal navy of King Rhaegar Targaryen chased them off. The third appeared near sunset, to cut them off from Whispering Sound. When they saw her oars rising and falling, lashing the copper waters white, Ser Jorah Mormont sent his archers to the castles with their great bows of Dornish yew that could send a shaft farther and truer than any normal bows. Only the bows made of dragonbone and the goldenheart tree in the Summer Isles could outreach them. He waited till the longship came within two hundred yards before he gave the command to loose. One volley was all it took. The longship of the sellswords veered south and was caught in between Wolfsbane and Ruby, both of them crushing the galley as if it was some rag doll.

A deep blue dusk was falling as they entered Whispering Sound. Jorah stood beside the prow with the captain of the Dragonborn, the mightiest of the war galleys the new Master of Ships made for House Targaryen. Smaller only to Balerion, the flagship of House Targaryen, the vessel was a formidable foe to anything that comes in its path. Jorah Mormont had never liked Aurane Waters for he spent too much time with Princess Daenerys for his liking, but even he had to admit the bastard of Driftmark made a good job making the ship.

He gazed up at the castle on the cliffs. Three Towers, Jorah knew it, the seat of House Costayne. He had seen it before once, when he came here for his wedding to Lynesse. Etched against the evening stars with torchlight flickering from its windows, the castle made a splendid sight, but he was sad to see it. It reminded him of Lynesse and their miserable marriage.

"It's very tall," said Ed, the captain of the Dragonborn, who'd never seen these lands before.

"Wait until you see the Hightower."

The sellswords had penetrated even to the sheltered waters of Whispering Sound. Come morning, as the Dragonborn continued on toward Oldtown, he began to see other sellsword ships up the stream and drifting down to the sea. Scorched fields and burned villages appeared on the banks, and the shallows and sandbars were strewn with shattered ships. Merchanters and fishing boats were the most common, but they saw abandoned longships too, and the wreckage of two big dromonds. One had been burned down to the waterline, whilst the other had a gaping splintered hole in her side where her hull had been rammed.

"There has been a battle here," said Ed. "Not so long ago."

"I never knew that the wolf boy is so mad as to raid this close to Oldtown."

Ed pointed at a half-sunken longship in the shallows. The remnants of a banner drooped from her stern, smoke-stained and ragged. The charge was one Jorah has been seeing for a few days now: the grey direwolf of House Stark but it was the other one which caught his eyes: the violet rose. "The Company of Rose is here?" Jorah asked. Ed only shrugged.

The next day was cold and misty. As the Dragonborn was creeping past another plundered fishing village, a war galley came sliding from the fog, stroking slowly toward them. Huntress was the name she bore, behind a figurehead of a slender maiden clad in leaves and brandishing a spear. A heartbeat later, two smaller galleys appeared on either side of her, like a pair of matched greyhounds stalking at their master's heels. To Jorah's relief, they flew King Rhaegar black and red three headed dragon banner above the stepped white tower of Oldtown, with its crown of flame.

So Lord Leyton is sporting his King's colors, not his foolish grandson's. My work here might come in quite handy after all, Jorah sighed. Like everyone else at court it was shocking for Jorah Mormont when King Rhaegar chose him to take command of the royal fleet in their voyage to join forces with the Redwyne fleet. He couldn't understand why such an important task was given to a northman like , until Oldtown came into the talk. Unlike the other great houses of the Reach, the Hightowers were close kin to the Starks of Winterfell. Lord Leyton Hightower was the great grandfather of the rebel king Andrew Stark through his mother's side. Lord Leyton had stayed his hands in the wars between the crown and the Outlaw King in the past. For Eddard Stark was married to his granddaughter. Since the return of Stark's son, there has been whispers of how Lord Hightower had been scheming with his grandson against the crown. It was then Jorah was chosen to lead the expedition. King Rhaegar chose him not because of his ability to lead but because he is Lord Leyton's goodson, putting Lord Hightower in a position to choose between his families.

The captain of the Huntress was a tall man in a smoke-grey cloak with a border of red satin flames. He brought his galley in alongside the Dragonborn, raised his oars, and shouted that he was coming aboard. As his crossbowmen and the Hightower archers eyed each other across the narrow span of water, the captain crossed over with half a dozen knights, gave Jorah a nod.

"My apologies," the captain said when he was done with the greetings. "It grieves me that our loyal friends must suffer such discomfort to enter our lands, but sooner that than the rebels in Oldtown. Only a fortnight ago some of those bloody bastards captured a Tyroshi merchantman in the straits. They captured her crew, donned their clothes, and used the dyes they found to color theirs whiskers half a hundred colors. Once inside the walls they meant to set the port and the Redwyne fleet ablaze and open a gate from within whilst we fought the fire. Might have worked, but they ran afoul of the Lady of the Tower, and her oarsmaster has a Tyroshi wife. When he saw all the green and purple beards he hailed them in the tongue of Tyrosh, and not one of them had the words to hail him back."

Jorah was shocked. "They cannot mean to capture Oldtown."

The captain of the Huntress gave him a curious look. "These are no mere sellswords. Half a hundred of their ships afflict us now, sailing out of the Shield Islands and some of the rocks around the Arbor. We couldn't sail for the north leaving them behind. Now that you are here we can deal with them soon enough."

"What is Lord Hightower doing?" Jorah asked. Surely he must be doing something. He was as wealthy as the Lannisters, and could command thrice as many swords as any of Highgarden's other bannermen.

"He is just following our good king's orders," the captain said, "waiting to join our strength with yours."

"The Hightower must be doing something."

"To be sure. Lord Leyton's locked atop his tower with the Mad Maid, consulting books of spells. Might be he'll raise an army from the deeps. Or not. Baelor's building galleys, Gunthor has charge of the harbor, Garth is training new recruits, and Humfrey's gone to Lys to hire sellsails. If he can winkle a proper fleet, we can start moving for the north without worrying a thing. Till then, the best we can do is destroy the enemy fleet at sea before moving anywhere else."

The bitterness of the captain's final words shocked Jorah as much as the things he said. If King's Landing loses Oldtown and the Arbor, the whole realm will fall to pieces, he thought as he watched the Huntress and her sisters moving off.

They reached Oldtown on a cold damp morning, when the fog was so thick that the beacon of the Hightower was the only part of the city to be seen. A boom stretched across the harbor, linking two dozen rotted hulks. Just behind it stood a line of warships, anchored by three big dromonds and Lord Hightower's towering four-decked banner ship, the Honor of Oldtown. Lord Redwyne's fleet had their own place in the port. Lord Leyton's son Gunthor eyed him from the port gate, dressed in a cloth-of-silver cloak and a suit of grey enameled scales. Ser Gunthor was an able man and had studied at the Citadel for several years and spoke different languages, but he had no words for his dishonored goodbrother.

For the first time in the entire journey Jorah Mormont doubted his entire purpose of being there. He was little loved in the Hightower family. They should have sent someone else, not me. But it was him who is here now. Its better to close your eyes and get on with it. Before getting down he took the time to explain his plans to his captain. "First the Hightower, to meet with Lord Leyton. I expect the commander of the Redwyne fleet will be there as well. Then we will talk about sailing to the north as the king instructed."

"Aye, my lord," the captain said and shouted some commands to the crew.

Ser Gunthor gave the signal for the chain to be opened so the royal fleet could slip through the boom to dock. Jorah joined Captain Ed and five of his knights near the gangplank as the war galley was tying up.

Jorah led his knights across the plank, ashore. He hoped he still remembered the way to the Hightower. Oldtown was a maze, and he had no time for getting lost.

The day was damp, so the cobblestones were wet and slippery underfoot, the alleys shrouded in mist and mystery. Jorah avoided them as best he could and stayed on the river road that wound along beside the Honeywine through the heart of the old city. It felt good to have solid ground beneath his feet again instead of a rolling deck, but the walk made him feel uncomfortable all the same. He could feel eyes on him, peering down from balconies and windows, watching him from the darkened doorways. On the Dragonborn he had known every face. Here, everywhere he turned he saw another stranger. Even worse was the thought of being seen by someone who knew him. Jorah Mormont was known in Oldtown, but little loved. He pulled his cloak up and quickened his pace.

Downriver, the distant beacon of the Hightower floated in the damp of night like a hazy orange moon, but the light did little to lift his spirits.

As the early morning's mists burned away, Oldtown took form around him, emerging ghostlike from the morning gloom. Where King's Landing, was a daub-and-wattle city, a sprawl of mud streets, thatched roofs, and wooden hovels. Oldtown was built in stone, and all its streets were cobbled, down to the meanest alley. The city was never more beautiful than at break of day. West of the Honeywine, the Guildhalls lined the bank like a row of palaces. Upriver, the domes and towers of the Citadel rose on both sides of the river, connected by stone bridges crowded with halls and houses. Downstream, below the black marble walls and arched windows of the Starry Sept, the manses of the pious clustered like children gathered round the feet of an old dowager.

And beyond, where the Honeywine widened into Whispering Sound, rose the Hightower, its beacon fires bright against the dawn. From where it stood atop the bluffs of Battle Island, its shadow cut the city like a sword. Those born and raised in Oldtown could tell the time of day by where that shadow fell. Some claimed a man could see all the way to the Wall from the top. Perhaps that was why Lord Leyton had not made the descent in more than a decade, preferring to rule his city from the clouds.

The foundation of the Hightower was a fortress of black stone of uncertain origin on Battle Isle. The stone reminded him of the indestructible Valyrian roads and the Black Walls of Volantis. A possible Valyrian origin of the black stone was supported by the claim of Maester Jellicoe. Jellicoe believed that Oldtown began as a trading post for ships of Valyria,Old Ghis, and the Summer Isles, predating the arrival of the First Men to Westeros. While Septon Barth claimed that Valyrians came to Westeros because their priests prophesied that the Doom of Man would come out of the land beyond the narrow sea and they assisted in building the foundation.

In contrast to the Valyrian theory, Archmaester Quillion in his words suggests that the fortress was made by the mazemakers.

Maester Theron suggests it was created by Deep Ones, citing its similarities to the Seastone Chair of the Iron Islands.

Some smallfolk even believed that the High Tower simply appeared one day and has been there ever since.

The fabled High Tower of the Hightowers itself had stories of its own. The first Hightowers ruled from the ancient black fortress. Dwelling in the chambers of the fortress, the family built a wooden beacon tower rising some fifty feet rising above to light the way for trading vessels in foggy Whispering Sound. Over the years the first "high tower" was followed by taller timber towers.

King Uthor of the High Tower paid for the construction of a stone tower. Some say that this fifth tower, which rose two hundred feet above the harbor and made the castle a seat worthy of a great house, was designed by Bran the Builder, while others say it was by his son, another Brandon. Whichever tale was true, the Hightowers finally had their High Tower worthy enough to be called as the tallest tower in the known world.

The labyrinthine square fortress of unadorned black stone at the castle's foundation contained gloomy halls, vaults, and chambers. To meet with his allies he would have to reach the high hall. He wondered if Lord Leyton would come down from the top of his tower to receive him.

Inside, they were led to the high hall by the steward of the castle. Once inside the doors he found his thoughts going back to Lynesse again.

The high hall was a huge room with a stone floor and high, arched windows. At the far end of the hall a close group of men sat upon the high table on the raised dais, breaking their fast on bacon and eggs. It was Ser Baelor, Lord Leyton's heir who saw him first. Clad in a lush velvet doublet, the future lord of Hightower was as handsome and charming as a prince. Ser Baelor was well known and well loved around Oldtown that it was him who ruled the city for his father for the last decade.

The steward cleared his throat to announce their presence. "My lords, Ser Jorah Mormont and the knights from King's Landing."

"Good morrow," Jorah greeted them when he was finished.

The men glanced up and saw him and his party.

"Come join us," Ser Baelor replied. "We were waiting for you."

Jorah took a seat on the bench and his men followed him.

"Took you long enough to come," said a comely youth in green satin clothes who sat beside Ser Baelor.

"We had troubles on the way."

"Don't tell me that a couple of sellsails managed to hinder the royal fleet." He chewed a crispy bacon.

"No," Jorah replied, "but it takes time to sink the ships which dares to hinder us on the way."

"But not too much like this, I believe."

"Come now Ser Loras, at least our friends from King's Landing helped us by sinking those ships," Ser Baelor said.

"I would've said its helpful for us if we didn't have to stay here so long for them."

So, its him who is leading the Redwyne fleet. Now Lord Leyton might have to choose between one grandson or the other. Tough choice for any old man, Jorah knew.

Slim as a sword, lithe and fit, Ser Loras Tyrell wore a green satin tunic and gold wool breeches, with a gold belt around his waist and a gold rose clasping his fine silk cloak. His hair was a soft brown tumble, and his eyes were brown as well, and bright with insolence. He thinks this is a tourney, and his tilt has just been called. "Surely we had not kept you so far away from your victory, Ser," said Jorah.

"Of course not," replied Ser Loras. "For we had been hunting the sellswords infesting our lands and waters."

"You must be proud," Jorah said.

"Yes, my lord." He smiled.

Jorah hated that smile. "You need to remember that its no tourney that we are sailing for, Ser Loras. War is much different than what you young men believe it is."

"And you're old," the boy said. "My lord. It doesn't fare well with older people as well."

The men on the bench laughed. Even his own men did laugh at that. "Old, aye," he admitted. "Older and wiser, ser. You should learn from me."

"As you learned from the sellswords in your exile?"

That arrow hit too close to the mark. "I learned from Eddard Stark, the King in the North," Jorah snapped. "Surely your lord father must have taught you something about him."

"Yes," the knight of flowers admitted. "But only that he is dead."

"He might be dead and gone but it is his own blood we are going to fight against."

"Even Eddard Stark was killed," said Loras Tyrell, "let's see what his blood can do. I hope to come to grips with Stark. Then we will see if he is as deadly as they praise him to be." With that Loras and his companions left the table leaving him alone with Ser Baelor and his men.

The rest of the meal continued in a complete silence except for the talks of his men and Ser Baelor telling his plans to Ed, his captain.

They were to set sail for the north at dusk. The Hightower fleet would stay at Oldtown with the Honor of Oldtown as the main center of defence should Stark have any sellsails hidden behind the rocks to take them in the rear. It was a sound plan.

With another voyage coming forth at dusk, Jorah Mormont opted to drowse for the rest of the day in a featherbed. At dusk, he was woken up by Iven, the second mate of Ed.

By the time he reached the Dragonborn, she was all ready to set forth for battle. All around her the other ships were also packed with men and swords. Jorah saw Ser Loras upon the flagship of the Redwyne fleet with one of Lord Paxtor's twins beside him but he couldn't tell who it was from the distance.

The port was crowded with the ships in their hundreds: Queen Lyanna, Sea Dragon, Wolfsbane, Ruby, Blackfyre, Queen Rhaella, King's Fire, Pyro, Princess Rhaenys, Justice, Red Dragon, Swift, Viserion, Queen Alysanne, Rhaegal, Prince's Power, and Nightmare.

There were others as well, but he could not find the Hightower fleet anywhere around. Even Honor of Oldtown was nowhere to be found. They must have gone to take care of the sellswords, he thought then.

Across the sea a warhorn boomed, telling the world that they are sailing for war. The men put up shouts of their own, battle cries of thousands that filled the city.

The warhorn boomed from the High Tower once again. This time though it seemed as if the sound came from the sky. He looked up at the High Tower and could see a couple of movements there at the top. He could not make out as to who they were but he still knew them. So the Oldman of Oldtown finally came out of his chambers to see us off.

For a moment silence took hold of the world. The blowing west wind seemed to stop. Suddenly, like a bird that makes quick changes in its flight, the wind started to blow from the east, then from the north, then from the south and from the west until it all met at the port causing the ships to collide with each other. The calm evening sea roused its waves slowly, boiling like an overcooked stew. Before he could figure out what was happening the waves were upon them smashing anything and everything in its path.

He saw the flagship of the Redwyne fleet engulfed in a huge wave nearing almost fourty feet at height. The wave hit them with such force that Ser Loras and his men were thrown off the deck three boats away. He stood there frozen for a moment and then the deck disappeared beneath him and the water rushed to kiss him.

Everything in his eyesight around him split asunder by the power of the water and was smashed against the waves. The huge war galleys, the pride of the great fleet were destroyed as if they were nothing more than a child's toys. Rocks around the port burst and fiery fountains spewed molten rock a hundred feet into the air, and onto the men. To the north, the chain was lowered at the entrance to the port to cut off any escape, and the angry sea came boiling in. Jorah looked around him. The proudest fleet in all the world was gone in an instant, smashed away to the wrath of the sea.

Then he looked up at the High Tower. In the setting sun the glow of the flame on its crown gave the High Tower an ethereal beauty but it was not the ordinary orange flames he had seen earlier that day. No, now it was a bright green flame which lightened the High Tower, calling its banners for battle. Jorah smiled weakly from his watery grave. So Lord Leyton has finally chosen the grandson he is going to fight for.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Rhaegar** _

"I am so sick of Robert and his impudence," the king's voice echoed against the high rafters of the throne room of the Red Keep. "Damn him and his Stormlords."

Seated on the high steps beneath the Iron Throne, Rhaegar could feel a growing tightness in his neck. The last raven that flew to the Red Keep also brought ill news as it has been for the past couple of moons. The letter from Andrew Stark was still fresh in Rhaegar's memory. Before he could deal with Stark and his northman another raven came in today, this time bearing news of the Stormlands and Robert. 

Like he had expected, Robert finally raised his hammer against him and his house. As he fell upon Griffin's Roost with an army of traitors to finally thwart the last block in his path and rouse against him with his treacherous friends. Thousands of his men were butchered and Ronald Connington has yielded the castle to Robert Baratheon, giving his cousin a chance to march forth north to join with his precious Ned's son. 

First Stark, now Robert, how many traitors should I have to deal with before I could fulfill my destiny. Somehow he knew that it is not going to stop with just the two of them. For all he knew, Jon Arryn could very well be bringing the knights of the Vale down the High road and the Old Lion is probably plotting along with them from the shadows. 

His family and advisors stood at the foot of his throne, looking all sullen and afraid at the dragon's wroth. Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan were with him as well, their hard, old faces emotionless.

"Jon!" The king called his Hand. Lord Jon knelt at the base of the throne. 

"I thought you had the Stormlands under your control," the king said. "If that's the case, how did I come to hear that Robert raised the Stormlords against my family?"

"Your Grace, I know naught of the plots Robert and his allies devised against you. Had I known, I would have brought their heads to you myself. Even now it hasn't gotten long, grant me leave to march against Robert and Stark and all those traitors, my king, and you'll have their heads mounted on a spike in no time."

"I need you here in King's Landing, not in some muddy pit," Rhaegar said and took his crown off his head. Of late the ruby encrusted circlet was more of an uncomfortable weight atop his head than a crown fit for a king. 

"Richard," Rhaegar called, "take the host in King's Landing and march north for the Trident. Myles will join with you in Maidenpool. Hold the river and smash any army that try to pass it to get to Riverrun."

"Father," said a voice from below. Aegon climbed the steps to the throne and stopped at a few steps below him. "You think little of me during these times, father. But I'm to inherit these lands. Its time I showed you that I'm worthy enough of being your heir. Let me fight this battle for you."

Rhaegar chuckled despite the horror coiling around his throat. He was only sixteen, not even a man grown and was already speaking of wars as if it was some tourney he could ride in and win the love of the people. Rhaegar had already lost three children, two for the greater good and one because he was too much like his brother was now. 

"What would you do son?" asked Rhaegar.

"Raise our dragon banner," answered his son, "and march forth against the north as you once done."

"Aegon!" Lyanna shrieked from behind. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking with the right mind mother." Aegon turned back and looked pointedly at her face. "He dared cross our family and threatened father. What happened to Jaehaerys is an injustice done to him and our family and it is my duty to protect my brother and serve my family and guard the honour of our house against anyone who tries to hinder it."

"Your wedding is on the horizon," she said. "You will do no such thing as to riding forth for battle." She looked at him with unyielding grey eyes, challenging him. "Surely your father must have thought of something to deal with this mess he has created."

Rhaegar ignored Lyanna's scoff and looked to his son. He stood up from his place on the steps and walked down to where his son was standing. The king put his hands on Aegon's shoulder. "Jon, send the ravens to all the corners of the realm. Gather our men here at King's Landing. My son will raise the dragon banner and lead the royal army." He climbed further down the steps. "Let any man who ignore my call be proclaimed a traitor to the realm. We'll start the war on the morrow against the traitors Jon Arryn, Robert Baratheon and Andrew Stark."

"Richard will take his men with Myles and move for Harrenhal," Rhaegar said. "Tomorrow we are going for war. This audience is at an end."

"Your Grace," Lyanna called when he walked past her, "a word with you?"

Rhaegar nodded. His queen came to his side as the others left. Dawn was still several hours away when Rhaegar slipped out the king's door behind the Iron Throne. Ser Barristan went before him with a torch and Ser Gerold strolled along behind him. Lyanna walked beside him, hands tucked as if she was thinking about something strongly. "If it please Your Grace," she said, "young men are overbold, and think only of the glory of battle and never of its dangers. Your son . . . our son is not an exception. This plan of his to lead your troops into battle is fraught with peril. He thinks riding a dragon to battle against knights on horseback is easy enough as swatting flies. Both of us know that the truth is far from that. Jaehaerys learned it in the hard way. So I beg you, do not let Aegon share his fate as well."

"Why?" Rhaegar asked. "Do you not trust in the valour of our son?"

"I have no doubt that our son will be the first man to ride into battle for you," Lyanna said. "Valour means nothing when the cost for it is your life. Know that this nemesis you have created for yourself is no callow tourney champion but a seasoned killer. How many men did you lose in Braavos?" 

He had no answer for that question. There had been several men lost to the sword of his nephew that night. He wondered if he could bear the lose of his son like that, the first and foremost of his three heads of the dragon. Then again Aegon's destiny is not to put down some mere rebels. He was destined to be the prince that was promised, to fight the Great Other. Bezzaro had told him that much. And with the dragon beside him no man can stand against him. 

"Aegon is my heir, the crown prince," the king told her. "If he is to rule this kingdom after me, he has to defend it from the traitors who would gladly see us dead and take it from us. The men will not respect him if he is afraid to defend his lands. He will lead my troops into battle whether you like it or not."

A laugh burst from Lyanna's lips, and echoed down the hall.

Rhaegar stopped in his path and looked at her, confused. "Why would you laugh?"

"Why," his wife said, "because I find it funny about the way you talk about the respect of men. Is that the way you won the respect of your men when my brother chased you out of his kingdom? Or did you earn it when my brother's son sent you running for your life?"

Rhaegar laughed at her, making his wife confused now. "No," he admitted. "But I won something more when I killed your brother to your pleasure. Don't lie to yourself that all of this is happening because of my actions. You have your fair share in the things we did that led us here."

He left her on the serpentine steps in the black of the night. She must have gone mad if she thinks I'm to blame for what happened to Jaehaerys. She was the one who urged me to bestow Winterfell upon her son despite my plans to rebuilt Summerhall again for him. All Lyanna ever seemed to do of late was plague him with cautions and objections. She had even objected to the understanding he had reached with the great masters of Essos. 

When the king finally reached his royal chambers, the candles which were burning when he left for the throne room had gone out. Rhaegar walked to the stand beside his bed and wrapped his middle finger, forefinger and thumb around the fat tallow candle. He watched at the wick of the candle intently as Bezzaro would look into his night fires. Heartbeats passed as it was always with the trick and then the king felt heat coming off him, steaming the cold night air around him. The candle wick took fire just like that, yellow flames burning brighter than any candle made by man. The blood of the dragon, Rhaegar smiled. He left the candle burning and went back to his sleep. 

When he woke up the next morning, the candle was still burning, having not once consumed the tallow to feed the fire. 

The king had wanted to speak to Bezzaro about the things happening, to get his counsel about everything that day. But the red priest had not yet returned from his voyage to the shadow lands of Asshai. I'm losing true friends and advisors, Rhaegar thought. He ought to return back soon enough.

There was a feast arranged in the Red Keep that evening. A farewell feast. He should get ready for the feast, to send his army forth to war.

The royal chambers in Maegor's Holdfast was larger than any other rooms of the Red Keep save for the Throne room. It was highly furnished with every comfort: feather mattress and sleeping furs, a wood-and-copper tub large enough for two, braziers, to keep off the night's chill, slung leather high chairs, a writing table with quills and inkpot, bowls of peaches, plums, and pears, a flagon of wine with a set of matched silver cups, cedar chests packed full of his kingly clothing, books, maps, game boards, his high harp, a longsword and a goldenwood shield, painted black with the red three headed dragon upon it and a vertible armory of fine weapons. 

Beside the door, the king's armor stood sentry; a suit of jet black plate, its fittings chased with polished black steel. The helm was the same black as the armour as well and plumes of fine red silks streamed from the top resembling angry flames while he rode his warhorse against the wind and his foes. In the breastplate the three headed dragon of House Targaryen was encrusted with rubies upon his chest, the dark red stones catching the sunlight in them and glinting like bleeding stars. He had always thought that he might have to wear the fine suit again, but not so soon. The king turned away sharply, angry with Ned Stark, Ashara Dayne, their bloody son Andrew Stark, angry with Robert, angry with Jon Arryn and even with his own wife. In time they will all know what happens if you taunt the dragon. Rhaegar washed the night's sleep and his tiredness from his body in the bath and changed into a rich cotton doublet with a mail coat over it. The shirt of mail was more fitting for the farewell feast as he will sent his son and army forth to battle with his blessings.

When the time came for him to go to the feast, Rhaegar buckled his silver studded swordbelt and sheathed his longsword Blackfyre in the silver banded scabbard. Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Lewyn Martell accompanied him to the throne room of Aegon the Dragon. 

Although evenfall was still an hour away, the throne room was already a blaze of light, with torches burning in every sconce. All the knights in King's Landing stood along the tables, dressed in plate and mail ready for battle. There were thousands of them, knights from the Crownlands and the Reach and Dorne alike. Pages in the royal livery escorted the lords and their ladies down the broad central aisle to their respective benches. The gallery above was packed with musicians; drummers and pipers and fiddlers, strings and horns and skins.

There were several thousand men gathered in the Red Keep that there was no enough room for everyone in the feast. Rhaegar walked past the neat and long columns of men and stood at the foot of the throne. From his raised position before the men he could see that the column of knights stretching to the far end of the hall like some great armoured snake.

Aegon stood at the head of the column of knights flanked by Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Daemon Sand. His son was dressed in a fine suit of armour made of black steel which mirrored his own. The dark curls on Aegon's head was pulled back and was tied into a knot at the back of his head. 

When the steward announced his presence to the people in the hall all of them knelt at once. Rhaegar bid them to stand and called his son before him. The king slid the mailed glove over his son's hands. The lobstered gauntlet went over it. When that was done, his son knelt before him again. Rhaegar unsheathed Blackfyre and brought it down gently over one of Aegon's armour clad shoulder. He dabbed the edge of the valyrian steel sword on his other shoulder as well. When it was done the king gave his sword back to Ser Gerold beside him and helped his son back to his feet. Rhaegar hugged Aegon and kissed his cheeks. His son gave a grim nod and stepped aside. 

Richard walked to stand in front of him and took his son's place. Rhaegar repeated the same actions for him as well. When he was done, he raised Richard up and bid him to move. Then it was time for his Small council and the kingsguard to receive his blessings. When all seven of the white knights were dubbed and armed by him for battle, Rhaegar shoved Blackfyre back into its sheath. 

"Let the cups be filled!" Rhaegar proclaimed, when the gods had been given their due. His cupbearer poured a whole flagon of dark Arbor red into his silver chalice. The king lifted it before him. "Tonight we drink for victory! For Victory!"

"Victory!" the hall shouted back at him. "Victory! Victory! King's Landing!" A thousand cups rang together, and the farewell feast was well and truly begun. Rhaegar Targaryen drank with the rest, emptying his cup on that first toast and sat at his central place on the high dais between the Hand of the King, Lord Jon Connington and the Warden of the South Lord Mace Tyrell. Mace Tyrell was mostly interested in the food and the jests made by Aurane Waters, while Jon continued to inquire about the war to the eunuch Varys.

Lyanna was seated at the far end of the high table. She did not gown herself fitting for a royal feast, but chose a plain grey gown instead. The garb brought out the plainness of her beauty. For the first time in years, Rhaegar found himself thinking of Elia. Beautiful, graceful and kind to a fault. He wondered if she would ever vex him like Lyanna does nowadays. Somehow he think not. They both cared for each other enough to not vex or shame anyone in public.

The cooks started to bring in the food for the feast. Of food there was plenty. While singers sang and tumblers tumbled, they began with pears poached in wine, and went on to tiny savory fish rolled in salt and cooked crisp, and capons stuffed with onions and mushrooms. There were great loaves of brown bread, mounds of turnips and sweetcorn and pease, immense hams and roast geese and trenchers dripping full of venison stewed with beer and barley. For the sweet, the servants brought down trays of pastries from his castle kitchens, cream swans and spun-sugar unicorns, lemon cakes cut in a dozen shapes, spiced honey biscuits and blackberry tarts, apple crisps and wheels of buttery cheese.

The king was not in a festive mood to enjoy the rich foods, but it never stopped his knights from enjoying the heavy feast. Rhaegar ate sparingly, while he watched his son who would lead his troops to battle on the morrow. Aegon sat with his young friends on his either side and was deeply engaged in some talks with the men he would lead, men older enough to be his father, seasoned men who has seen several battles. Though when his son said something they all laughed. The men respects him naturally, he thought, and it is a good thing. 

From time to time, Aegon would slip from his table to his betrothed, to share some shy talks and kisses. His son would feed Arianne some choice morsel off the point of his dagger, or lean over to plant the lightest of kisses on her cheek. Aegon played the perfect prince tonight. 

Some of the knights were less moderate. They drank too much and boasted too loudly. Two young Crownlander knights disputed heatedly about who would be first to come into grips with the Dragonslayer. Lord Merryweather dandled a serving girl on his lap, nuzzling at her neck while one hand went exploring down her bodice. Aegon swore to all the men in the hall to scour the Seven Kingdoms of all the traitors and restore peace. While Richard told his wish of fighting Lord Robert Baratheon in single combat. Another young knight vowed to slay Stark's direwolf and gift the pelt to Princess Arianne as a gift to the future queen.

In the entirety of the hall, only his wife did not join the merriment. "They are all so young," she said when he took his seat beside her.

It was true. Their son could not have reached his second name day when he had to march against Ned Stark for the first time. Few of the others were little bit older. They had been babes during the Sack of King's Landing, and no more than boys when Eddard Stark raised his banners in rebellion. They are still unblooded, Rhaegar thought as he watched Lord Jaime Rykker goad Ser Quinton Chelsted into juggling a brace of daggers. It is all a game to them still, a tourney writ large, and all they see is the chance for glory and honor and spoils. They are boys drunk on song and story, and like all boys, they think themselves immortal.

"War will make them old," Rhaegar said, "as it always does." 

"I pity them," said Lyanna.

"Why?" Rhaegar asked his wife. "Look at them. They're young and strong, full of life and laughter. And lust, aye, more lust than they know what to do with. There will be many a bastard bred this night, I promise you. Why pity?"

"Because it will not last," Lyanna answered, sadly. "Because they are the knights of summer, and winter is coming."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick peek at King's Landing and Rhaegar's new plans. I hope you guys liked the chapter. Please leave a comment and let me know what your thoughts are. I would love to hear your thoughts. Thanks for reading my story. Have a nice day and stay safe.


	3. Chapter 3

_**** _

_**Andrew** _

They heard the Green Fork before they saw it, an endless susurrus, like the growl of some great beast. The river was a boiling torrent, half again as wide as it had been the last time he saw it, almost a decade before, when his father had been the King in the North and took his heir and queen south to meet his southern friends and family. King Eddard had needed Lord Walder and his bridge then, and Andrew needs them even more now. His heart was full of the past as he watched the fresh green waters swirl past. It reminded him the green eyes of Joy Hill, though hers had never been fierce like the river. Her eyes had been two green pools, still and calm. He had drowned and lost in them more often than not. 

The green waters of the Green Fork was raging before him. There is no way we will ford this, nor swim across, and it could be a moon's turn before these waters fall again.

There has been talks of fighting in the Riverlands and the Stormlands lately and he could be very well losing allies as they were waiting for the rainfall to stop and the rivers to quiet.

Andrew rode at the front of the column, beneath the flapping white banner of Winterfell. His father had taught him enough to treat all of his men as equals. There was always a man with King Eddard at the high table of Winterfell while he still ruled the north. The people would differ everyday, going from high lords to guards walking the walls. Following his father, each day Andrew would ask one of his lords to join him, so they might confer as they marched; he honored every man in turn, showing no favorites, listening as his lord father had listened, weighing the words of one against the other. Today it was Lord Robett Glover's turn to ride with him.

Andrew had sent Lord Beric and his brotherhood with a hundred picked men and a hundred swift horses to race ahead of them and to screen their movements and scout the way. The reports Lord Beric's riders brought back did little to reassure him. The Tyrell host under Ser Garlan was still many days to the south . . . but Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing, had assembled a force of near four thousand men at his castles on the Green Fork.

He could not say if the old man had gathered his men to oppose him or to fend off the reachmen who were troubling his liege lord and the fellow river lords. Lord Hoster had already called his banners; by rights, Lord Frey should have gone to join the Tully host at Riverrun, yet here he sat.

"Four thousand men," Lord Robett repeated, perplexed at the thought. "Lord Frey cannot hope to fight the Targaryens by himself. Surely he means to join his power to ours."

Does he? Andrew wondered. Both his father and mother never placed any trust in Lord Walder. They trusted him as much as anyone would trust a sellsword. Andrew still remembered meeting Lord Walder for the first time. For the brief time they had spent in the halls of Lord Frey, he had been mostly interested in the gold and silver his father had brought with them. They hadn't even stayed in the comfort of his castle, opting to make camp away from the sight of the Twins. He should expect nothing of Walder Frey, then he might never be surprised.

The vanguard spread out behind him, a slow-moving forest of lances and banners and spears. 

"He's Lord Hoster's bannerman," Andrew said. "Yet I see him sitting in his castle despite his overlord's call."

"Your lord father always treated the man with caution, my lord," Lord Glover said.

Andrew nodded. Somehow he remembered his mother's words then, "Some men take their oaths more seriously than others, Andrew. When Lord Arryn denied to hand over the heads of your father and Lord Robert to the Mad King and rose in rebellion there were still some lords of the Vale who were loyal to the king. Loyalty of the people is not bought in one day, love. It is earned. One day you might have to earn it for yourself. Then know well that love is always better than fear. Let your enemies fear you but not your people."

"Do you think Frey means to betray us to the Targaryens, Your Grace?" Robett Glover asked gravely.

Andrew sighed. "I don't know, we will see soon enough. Anyways, we must have the Twins," Andrew said knowingly. "There is no other way across the river. And we don't have enough time to wait for the rains to stop and rivers to calm. What's bothering me is that Walder Frey knows that, you can be sure of that. I don't know what he is going to ask us in return for the passage."

That night they made camp on the southern edge of the bogs, halfway between the kingsroad and the river. It was there his cousin brought them further word from the lightning lord. "Lord Beric says to tell you he's crossed swords with the Tyrells. There are a dozen scouts who won't be reporting back to Ser Garlan anytime soon. Or ever." He said. "Ser Dickon Tarly commands their outriders, and he's pulling back south, burning as he goes. He knows where we are, more or less, but the lightning lord vows he will not know when we cross."

"Unless Lord Frey tells him," Lord Robett said. 

"We don't have to worry about that, my lord," Edric said. "Lord Beric has placed his best bowmen around the Twins, day and night, with orders to bring down any raven they see leaving the battlements."

That was deftly done, thought Andrew. I want no birds bringing word of my movements to the Targaryens.

"Its done wisely," Theo Wull said. "The lesser they know about us the better."

"What have the Freys been doing while the Targaryens burn their fields and plunder their holdfasts?" Andrew asked.

"There's been some fighting between Ser Dickon's men and Lord Walder's," Edric answered. "Not a day's ride from here, we found two Tyrell scouts feeding the crows where the Freys had strung them up. Most of Lord Walder's strength remains massed at the Twins, though."

"That bears Walder Frey's seal beyond a doubt," Greatjon Umber snarled. "He is a craven, Your Grace. Your father knew as much. He will hold back, wait, watch, take no risk unless forced to it.

"If he's been fighting the Tyrells, perhaps he does mean to hold to his vows to House Tully," Andrew said.

Lord Umber was less encouraged. "He has not yet taken the field against the dragons. Its fear that's keeping him from declaring open battle against Rhaegar."

Andrew turned back to his cousin. "Has Lord Beric found any other way across the Green Fork?"

Edric shook his head sadly. "The river's running high and fast. Lord Beric and Thoros says it can't be forded, not this far north."

"I must have that crossing!" Andrew declared, fuming. Had he still been Andrew Snow, he might have swam across the raging river despite the risk. "Our horses might be able to swim the river, I suppose, but not with armored men on their backs. We'd need to build rafts to pole our steel across, helms and mail and lances, and we don't have the trees for that. Or the time. The Tyrells are dangerously close and Rhaegar might be marching north . . . " He balled his hand into a fist.

"Lord Frey would be a fool to try and bar our way," Smalljon Umber said with his customary easy confidence. "We have five times his numbers. You can take the Twins if you need to, Your Grace."

"Not easily," Roose Bolton warned them, "and not in time. While you were mounting your siege, Ser Garlan would bring up his huge host and assault you from the rear."

Andrew glanced from Lord Bolton to Smalljon Umber, searching for an answer and finding none. For a moment the crown on his head felt a little heavy on his head. He still found the weight of the sword in his hand more welcoming than the weight of his father's crown atop his brow. What would my lord father do? he asked himself. Find a way across, a voice seemed to tell him from the inside, a voice which sounded very much like his father's. Whatever it takes. Find a way.

The next morning it was Lord Beric Dondarrion himself who rode back to them. He had put aside the heavy plate and helm he'd worn which marked him as the lightning lord for the lighter leather-and-mail of an outrider, but his faded black and purple cloak still covered his shoulders.

Lord Beric's face was grave as he swung down off his horse. "There has been a battle at Tumbler Falls in the Blackwater Rush near Stoney Sept," he said, his mouth grim. "We had it from a Tarly outrider we took captive. Less than a fortnight past, they fought the battle in the banks of the Rush by the Roseroad. Lord Hoster had sent Lord Vance and Lord Piper to hold the Rush and block the Roseroad to the north, but Ser Garlan Tyrell descended on them and put them to flight. Lord Vance was slain by Ser Garlan himself. Lord Piper has fallen back to join Lord Tully and his other bannermen at Riverrun, with Ser Garlan Tyrell on his heels. That's not the worst of it, though. After the battle was done, the Tyrell host has split into two, with Ser Garlan racing north to lead the invasion of Riverlands while the second Tyrell army under the command of Lord Randyll Tarly and Lord Mathis Rowan turned south to meet Lord Robert and the power of Storm's End. They have planned to not to let us join together."

"Any word on King's Landing?" Andrew asked.

"Our captive says that Rhaegar has massed a great host in the Red Keep," Lord Beric replied. "He says that it will only be a matter of time before the king come for us with his dragons."

The news warmed his heart more than he had thought it would be. It was the best thing he has heard in the last few weeks. All the fighting and deaths in his life lead to only one thing. His sword against Rhaegar Targaryen's sword. His life against Rhaegar's. Andrew was glad that was coming to happen soon enough.

"How did the large host of the Reachmen got up north so quickly?" asked Lord William Dustin.

"Garlan Tyrell brought his army in barges and cogs by the river," Lord Beric said. "Tyrell is quickly riding for Riverrun to meet Lord Hoster and the riverlords."

Andrew looked around at his lords. "We must get across this accursed river if we're to have any hope of helping them in time."

"That will not be easily done," the lightning lord cautioned. "Lord Frey has pulled his whole strength back inside his castles, and his gates are closed and barred."

"Damn the man," Andrew swore. If only the crown was not there upon his head, he could've infiltrated the castle and opened the gates for his men. He had scaled the walls of buildings a dozen times bigger than the Twins. Yet a king is no assassin to do that.

"There must be someway to make him open the gates for us," Ned Dayne said. 

Perhaps there might actually be, Andrew thought. He remembered his father's words. "A lord must learn that sometimes words can accomplish what swords cannot, Andrew," his father had told him when his mother complained his father about Andrew's lack of interest in the maester's lessons in favour for training sessions with Ser Rodrik.

He smiled knowingly. Now he knew how to deal with the Freys. "I know how to deal with the Freys."

His bannermen looked confused. Andrew continued. "The Freys have held the crossing for six hundred years, and for six hundred years they have never failed to exact their toll. They even made it sure to get enough gold from my father."

"What toll? What does he want?" Lord Umber asked.

Andrew smiled. "That is what we must discover."

It was near midday when their vanguard came in sight of the Twins, where the Lords of the Crossing had their seat. The rainfall was more frequent as they moved further south into the Riverlands and the downpour was the heaviest he had come across during the entire journey.

The Green Fork ran swift and deep here, but the Freys had spanned it many centuries past and grown rich off the coin men paid them to cross. Their bridge was a massive arch of smooth grey rock, wide enough for two wagons to pass abreast; the Water Tower rose from the center of the span, commanding both road and river with its arrow slits, murder holes, and portcullises. It had taken the Freys three generations to complete their bridge; when they were done they'd thrown up stout timber keeps on either bank, so no one might cross without their leave.

The timber had long since given way to stone. The Twins-two squat, ugly, formidable castles, identical in every respect, with the bridge arching between-had guarded the crossing for centuries. High curtain walls, deep moats, and heavy oak-and-iron gates protected the approaches, the bridge footings rose from within stout inner keeps, there was a barbican and portcullis on either bank, and the Water Tower defended the span itself.

One glance was sufficient to tell Andrew that the castle would not be taken by storm. The battlements bristled with spears and swords and scorpions, there was an archer at every crenel and arrow slit, the drawbridge was up, the portcullis down, the gates closed and barred.

The Greatjon began to curse and swear as soon as he saw what awaited them. Lord Rickard Karstark glowered in silence. "That cannot be assaulted, my lords," Roose Bolton announced.

"Nor can we take it by siege, without an army on the far bank to invest the other castle," Helman Tallhart said gloomily. Across the deep-running green waters, the western twin stood like a reflection of its eastern brother. "Even if we had the time. Which, to be sure, we do not."

As his northern lords studied the castle, a sally port opened, a plank bridge slid across the moat, and a dozen knights rode forth to confront them, led by four of Lord Walder's many sons. Their banner bore twin towers, dark blue on a field of pale silver-grey. Ser Stevron Frey, Lord Walder's heir, spoke for them. The Freys all looked like weasels; Ser Stevron, past sixty with grandchildren of his own, looked like an especially old and tired weasel, yet he was polite enough. "My lord father has sent me to greet you, and inquire as to who leads this mighty host."

"I do." Andrew spurred his horse forward. He was in his jacket, with the long leather coat clasped over and Ghost padding by his side.

The old knight looked at him with a faint flicker of amusement in his watery grey eyes, though his gelding whickered uneasily and sidled away from the direwolf. "Forgive me, my lord, but you do resemble your father. My lord father would be most honored if you would share meat and mead with him in the castle and explain your purpose here."

His words crashed among the lords bannermen like a great stone from a catapult. Not one of them approved. They cursed, argued, shouted down each other.

"You must not do this, my lord," Galbart Glover pleaded with him. "Lord Walder is not to be trusted."

Roose Bolton nodded. "Go in there alone and you're his captive. He can sell you to the Targaryens, throw you in a dungeon, or slit your throat, as he likes."

"If he wants to talk to us, let him open his gates, and we will all share his meat and mead," declared Ser Wendel Manderly.

"Or let him come out and treat with His Grace here, in plain sight of his men and ours," suggested his brother, Ser Wylis.

Andrew shared all their doubts, but he had only to glance at Ser Stevron to see that he was not pleased by what he was hearing. A few more words and the chance would be lost. He had to act with his words now, and quickly. "I will go," he said at last.

"Your Grace?" The Greatjon furrowed his brow.

"My king, I beg you to reconsider," Robett Glover said.

"No," Andrew said. "I have made my decision. I'll go and explain our purpose in being here to Lord Frey." 

"Then let me come with you, Your Grace," the Greatjon offered. The others started to ask the same as well.   
"I trust you all with my life," Andrew told them. "But it is disrespecting the faith of our good Lord Frey if we don't honour his noble invitation.” He lied wisely. It will be easier for him to escape from the castle should Lord Frey tries to capture him for the Targaryens if he was alone. Andrew was ready to play the old lord's game in his terms. He did not come all the way out here to sit down meekly in some damn dungeon. Should Frey betray me for some sacks of Targaryen gold, I'll pull down the Twins all around him. 

"Ghost, with me," Andrew called. The direwolf shook the wetness off his thick white fur and came to his side. He spurred his horse forward and did not look back. Lord Walder's sons and envoys fell in around him.

The gatehouse towers emerged from the rain like ghosts, hazy grey apparitions that grew more solid the closer they rode. The Frey stronghold was not one castle but two; mirror images in wet stone standing on opposite sides of the water, linked by a great arched bridge. From the center of its span rose the Water Tower, the river running straight and swift below. Channels had been cut from the banks, to form moats that made each twin an island. The rains had turned the moats to shallow lakes.

Across the turbulent waters, Andrew could see several thousand men encamped around the western castle, their banners hanging like so many drowned cats from the lances outside their tents. The rain made it impossible to distinguish colors and devices. Most were grey, it seemed to him, though beneath such skies the whole world seemed grey. The greyness reminded him of Braavos and its fogs.

He must tread lightly here, as mother would urge his father. 

Four Freys rode out from the eastern gatehouse, wrapped in heavy cloaks of thick grey wool. Andrew recognized none of them. The four of them were likely Lord Walder's own sons or grandsons. Ser Stevron confirmed as much. "Ryman, the first rider, is my son. Edwyn is eldest riding next to my son. The tall man with the beard on the black palfrey is Black Walder. Petyr is on the bay. Petyr Pimple, his brothers call him." Andrew looked at them carefully. Ser Ryman, son of Ser Stevron, Lord Walder's firstborn. When his father dies, Ryman will be the heir to the Twins but it seemed as if Ser Ryman could already have some grandsons of his own. The face he saw beneath his hood was fleshy, broad, and stupid. 

Edwyn Frey was a pale slender man with the constipated look. Black Walder was a wiry man with a cruel face. Petyr was the lad with the unfortunate face. He could have only been a year or two older than Andrew himself. Andrew had to take only one look at his face to understand why he was called Petyr Pimple. 

They halted to let their hosts come to them. Andrew's banner drooped on its staff, and the steady sound of rainfall mingled with the rush of the swollen Green Fork on their right. Ghost edged forward, tail stiff, watching through slitted eyes of red blood. When the Freys were a half-dozen yards away Andrew heard him growl, a deep rumble that seemed almost one with rush of the river. 

There was more trouble at the gatehouse. Ghost balked in the middle of the drawbridge, shook the rain off, and howled at the portcullis. Andrew whistled impatiently. "Ghost. What is it? Ghost, to me." But the direwolf only bared his teeth. He does not like this place, Andrew thought. He dismounted from his horse and knelt beside Ghost to speak softly to the wolf. At last he did consent to pass beneath the portcullis. By then Lame Lothar and Walder Rivers had come up. "It's the sound of the water he fears," Rivers said. "Beasts know to avoid the river in flood."

"A dry kennel and a leg of mutton will see him right again," said Lothar cheerfully. "Shall I summon our master of hounds?"

"He's a direwolf, not a dog," Andrew told them, "and he stays with me."

The Lord of the Crossing welcomed Andrew in the great hall of the east castle, surrounded by twenty-one living sons, thirty-six grandsons, nineteen great-grandsons, and numerous daughters, granddaughters, bastards, and grandbastards. It is a bloody army here, Andrew thought as he looked at the people crowding around him.

Lord Walder was ninety, a wizened pink weasel with a bald spotted head, too gouty to stand unassisted. His wife, a pale frail girl of sixteen years, walked beside his litter when they carried him in. Andrew could clearly remember that the girl wasn't the same one he had seen with Lord Walder years before. He wondered how many wives Lord Frey has had in his entire life to build up such a formidable army of sons.

"It is a great pleasure to see you again after so many years, my lord," Andrew said.

The old man squinted at him suspiciously. "Is it? I doubt that. Your father was the same. Spare me the sweet words your mother fed you along with her sweet milk. I am too old but not stupid. Why are you here?" 

Andrew had been a babe at his mother's hip the last time he had visited the Twins, but even then Lord Walder had been irascible, sharp of tongue, and blunt of manner. Age had made him worse than ever, it would seem. He would need to choose his words with care, and do his best to take no offense from his.

"Father," Ser Stevron said reproachfully, "you forget yourself. Lord Stark is here at your invitation."

"Did I ask you? You are not Lord Frey yet, not until I die. Do I look dead? I'll hear no instructions from you."

"This is no way to speak in front of our royal guest, Father," one of his younger sons said.

"Now my bastards presume to teach me courtesy," Lord Walder complained. "I'll speak any way I like, damn you. I've had four kings to guest in my life, and queens as well, including his parents, do you think I require lessons from the likes of you, Ryger?" He dismissed the red-faced youth with a flick of his fingers and gestured to two of his other sons. "Danwell, Whalen, help me to my chair."

They shifted Lord Walder from his litter and carried him to the high seat of the Freys, a tall chair of black oak whose back was carved in the shape of two towers linked by a bridge. His young wife crept up timidly and covered his legs with a blanket. When he was settled, the old man bowed forward. "You will forgive me if I do not kneel, I know. My legs no longer work as they did." His mouth split in a toothless smile as he eyed his crown. "Some would say it's a poor king who crowns himself with bronze, Your Grace."

"Bronze and iron are stronger than gold and silver," Andrew answered. "The old Kings of Winter wore it with pride, so did my father and so will I."

"Sire," Lord Walder said, "Why are you here?"

"To ask you to open your gates, my lord," Andrew replied politely. "My army and bannermen are most anxious to cross the river and be on our way."

"To Riverrun?" He sniggered. "Oh, I have gotten the letters as well."

"To Riverrun," Andrew confirmed. He saw no reason to deny it. "Where I might have expected to find you, my lord. You are still Lord Hoster's bannerman, are you not? Have you not heard of the fighting in the Riverlands."

"Heh," said Lord Walder, a noise halfway between a laugh and a grunt. "I called my swords, yes I did, here they are, you saw them on the walls. It was my intent to march as soon as all my strength was assembled. Well, to send my sons. I am well past marching myself." He looked around for likely confirmation and pointed to a tall, stooped man of fifty years. "Tell His Grace, Jared. Tell him that was my intent."

"It was, Your Grace," said the Jared Frey. "On my honor."

"My sons tell me that the Tullys are already on their heels," He leaned back against his cushions and scowled at him, as if challenging him to dispute his version of events. "I am told Mace Tyrell's son went through them like an axe through ripe cheese. Why should my boys hurry south to die? All those who did go south are running north again. Do you not remember what happened to your royal family, Your Grace?"

Ghost bared his teeth at the mention of his family. Andrew rubbed the white wolf behind the ear and wondered how the old man would feel if he set Ghost upon him and sent him running south on his own two legs, but he had only little time to open the bridge. Words of anger or threats will not help him here. Calmly, he said, "I remember that, my lord. It is for that reason I have to go south."

"Heh, all the more like your father," Lord Frey smiled a toothless smile. "I need to talk with you." The spotted pink head snapped around. "What are you all looking at?" he shouted at his kin. "Get out of here. I want to speak to his grace in private. Go, all of you, find something useful to do. Yes, you too, woman. Out, out, out." As his sons and grandsons and daughters and bastards and nieces and nephews streamed from the hall, he leaned close to Andrew and confessed, "They're all waiting for me to die. Stevron's been waiting for forty years, but I keep disappointing him. Heh. Why should I die just so he can be a lord? I ask you. I won't do it."

"I hope you haven't called me here to discuss about how long we would live."

"That would be nice, to be sure. Oh, to be sure. Though I believe you Starks don't think much about life."

No, he thought. I've never thought of life until I met Joy and never have thought about it since I lost her. "Maybe that's why I want to rush south," Andrew told him.

"Heh, that's blunt. So I get it that you want to cross." Lord Frey leaned forward. "Why should I let you?"

"I have gold," Andrew answered.

Lord Frey cackled. "I have no need for your gold. I know that the gold your father paid me is still somewhere in my chests." He pushed himself back in his chair and crossed his arms, smirking. "You and your fourty thousand men will soon be charred corpses when the king descends upon you from King's Landing. You have been named as a traitor to the realm and anyone who might be joining you will be treated as such. Even your father, as great as he was still lost his life in the south. I've sworn oaths to House Targaryen not to your father, it seems to me. Rhaegar's the king now, and that makes you and your allies and all those fools out there no better than rebels like your father. If I had the sense the gods gave a fish, I'd help the Targaryens burn you all. Why should I help you and be branded as a traitor to the realm?"

"You are right," Andrew admitted. "We might lose. We might actually be riding forth to our deaths. But what if we prevailed in the end."

He bobbed his head side to side, weighing his words. "Ah, Dragonslayer, this is not a single castle we are talking about."

"I know," Andrew told him. "Still nothing in this world is certain, my lord. Nothing but winter alone, and Winter is coming."

Lord Walder snorted with disdain. "Heh, your fancy words. But those words mean very little here. I have seen more winters than your entire family combined!" He cackled. "I have been Lord Frey since your father's grandfather was Lord Stark and I've outlived all of them to your father."

"I have no intention of dying too soon like you think I will," Andrew said calmly.

Lord Walder jabbed a bony finger at his face. "You're impudent like your father. Your family has always pissed on me, you know it's true. Years ago, your family came to my castle to cross the river. I opened my gates for him despite his feud with the Targaryen king. While he was here, I suggested a match between you and my daughter. Why not? I had a daughter in mind, sweet girl, a little older than you for you were still a red faced babe at your mother's teats, but if your father did not find her perfect, I had others he might have had found perfect for you, young ones, pretty ones, virgins, widows, whatever he wanted. No, King Eddard would not have any of them. Sweet words he gave me, excuses, but what I wanted was to get rid of a daughter. When I provided him the hospitality of my castle, he would not stay. My bed was too old and cold for your father to lay his queen down and fuck her.

"And your mother, pretty as she was, her words were the sweetest of lies. She told me that you were promised to someone else. Queen Ashara the Benevolent told no to me. Oh, but I did see her benevolence in a way. She promised me that she would take two of my grandsons as wards to your royal castle Winterfell. Even still she wouldn't take them to the south with you. Why, I should have asked her then. Your father had southron friends; the great lords Arryn, Baratheon, Tully and I believe she was ashamed to call Lord Frey as their friend to the likes of them. At least your mother offered to take my grandsons as wards, but your aunt, the queen, she is full of bad, I promise you. When I proposed the same thing to her and her husband she told me that she had no time for my grandsons or any wards for that matter. Are my grandsons unworthy to be seen at the king's court? They are sweet boys, quiet and mannerly. Walder is Merrett's son, named after me, and the other one . . . heh, I don't recall . . . he might have been another Walder, they're always naming them Walder so I'll favor them, but his father . . . which one was his father now?" His face wrinkled up. "Well, never mind. Years after your parents never came back to hold their promise to me, after Rhaegar made his six kingdoms as seven again, I went to his city to see my sons ride in the tourney for the prince's nameday. Stevron and Jared are too old for the lists now, but Danwell and Hosteen rode, Perwyn as well, and a couple of my bastards tried the melee. If I'd known how they'd shame me, I would never have troubled myself to make the journey. Why did I need to ride all that way to see Hosteen knocked off his horse by that Tyrell whelp? I ask you. The boy's half his age, Ser Daisy they call him, something like that. And Danwell was unhorsed by the Targaryen boy you slew in Winterfell. Some days I wonder if those two are truly mine. My third wife was a Crakehall, all of the Crakehall women are sluts. Well, never mind about that, she died even before your mother was born, what do you care?

"I was speaking of your aunt. I proposed that the king and queen foster my grandsons but they wouldn't have Walder, or the other one, and I blame your aunt for that. She didn't even know how to behave like a highborn and stormed off without a word of regrets after knocking down half the plates on the table." Lord Walder slumped against his chair. "Stark, Targaryen, Baratheon, Lannister, Arryn, Tully, Martell, none of you have been friends of mine. Why should I help any of you?"

Andrew smiled knowing what the old man wanted. "I will honour the promise my mother made to you," he said at last. "I will take your sons as royal wards to Winterfell. Had I not been promised to someone else, I would have married your daughter like you wanted."

"Heh, that wasn't hard now, was it?" Lord Walder smiled. "And I need you to take one of my sons for your personal squire. I would like to see him knighted, in good time. "

"Squire?" Andrew asked confused. "I am no knight."

"Damn your excuses," Lord Frey said. "I've heard of your skills, Dragonslayer. You know how to swing a sword. That's enough to keep a squire."

"Very well, then," Andrew said. "Ask your son to join me on the way out. If that's all . . ."

"And," Walder Frey started off again. "I need a marriage pact to join our houses in the future."

"Well, you have it," Andrew said at once. He has no idea that it might never happen whilst he lives, Andrew thought as he saw Lord Frey grinning.

"So, its done," the Lord of the Crossing said. "My castle is yours, sire and so are my men. I mean to keep back four hundred men to hold the Twins for you."

"Take five hundred of my own men as well, my lord," Andrew told him. "Bolster the castle and let no one cross the river." And should I ever find out that you need help to keep faith, they will make sure to teach you a lesson. 

A swollen red sun hung low against the western hills when the gates of the castle opened. The drawbridge creaked down, the portcullis winched up, and Andrew Stark rode forth to rejoin his lords bannermen. Ghost followed him closely. Behind him came Ser Jared Frey, Ser Hosteen Frey, Ser Danwell Frey, and Lord Walder's bastard son Ronel Rivers, leading a long column of pikemen, rank on rank of shuffling men in blue steel ringmail and silvery grey cloaks. His new squire Olyvar Frey held his direwolf banner beside him.

His bannermen galloped out to meet him. "Lord Walder will grant us our crossing. He has pledged his swords to me." Andrew looked around his lords and found Ser Helman Tallhart. "Ser Helman," he beckoned him forward. Ser Helman moved forward and bowed his head. "Choose five hundred picked men, a mixed force of archers and swordsmen. I'm leaving a garrison here at the Twins to hold the crossing and you're in command of it."

"As you say, Your Grace," Ser Helman answered. "I'll not fail you." 

Andrew gazed at the ranks of pikemen forming into their formation behind them. "Get the men ready to move," he told his lords.

They crossed at evenfall as a horned moon floated upon the river. The double column wound its way through the gate of the eastern twin like a great steel snake, slithering across the courtyard, into the keep and over the bridge, to issue forth once more from the second castle on the west bank.

Andrew rode at the head of the serpent, with Ghost and his cousin Ned, his new squire and Ser Stevron Frey. Behind followed nine tenths of their horse; knights, lancers, freeriders, and mounted bowmen. After them came the larger part of the northern host, pikes and archers and great masses of men-at-arms on foot . It took hours for them all to cross. Afterward, Andrew would remember the clatter of countless hooves on the drawbridge, the sight of Lord Walder Frey in his litter watching them pass, the glitter of eyes peering down through the slats of the murder holes in the ceiling as they rode through the Water Tower.

As he brought the men south, he could only think of one thing; the quest which brought him here, the quest for justice, and now it begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the northern army has made their way into the Riverlands. Andrew has thrown the dice and we'll see if it is for ill or good. I hope you guys liked this chapter. As always leave a comment and let me know what you think. They are always wonderful to read and encourage me to write more. They mean a lot to me. I would greatly appreciate it if you took the time to let me know about my writing and the pros and cons of the story.
> 
> As always thank you for reading my story. Have a nice day.


	4. Chapter 4

_**** _

_**Argella**_

All along the Misty Wood surrounding the northern Stormlands and for leagues around the Wendwater rose great pillars of evergreen tree trunks covered in green moss, standing strong and unmovable from the ancient days of the Children of the Forest and their clash with Durran Godsgrief. Holdfasts had grown up about the forest. A few had flowered into castles where men still ruled as they had for thousands of years. 

Conflicts between the First Men and the children arose as the First Men made their settlements in the forest. The children tolerated the buildings of First Men and villages along the forest's streams, but conflict broke out over the First Men's use of timber.

Durran Godsgrief of Storm's End claimed the forest for the First Men, leading to generations of warfare between House Durrandon and the children. The woods witch known as the Green Queen held the forest for almost a generation during the reign of King Durwald I Durrandon which was later brought back under the rule of Storm's End.

Here in the rainwood the trees ruled, it is said by the people of Stormlands, and Argella had only to take one look around her to see the truth of it. The castles oft seem as if they have grown from the earth instead of being built. And the knights and lords of the rainwood have roots as deep as the trees that shelter them, and have oft proved themselves steadfast in battle, strong and stubborn and immovable.

They had come across dozens of holdfasts and villages on their way north. The banners flapping from  
the all of the towns' stout wooden walls still displayed the crowned  
stag of House Baratheon, which showed no opposition for their huge host as they passed through the villages and towns. Ella pitied them. Should the rebellion her soon-to-be husband started be put down, it would go ill for them just for the single reason of siding with her family. Maester Cresson had taught her enough to know that, "The dragon does not know how to forgive or forget." That was another lesson that the old maester had taken pains to teach her as she wouldn't learn her lessons with earnest. Riding alone in the middle of the forest, Argella found that she missed the old man. The constant presence of Maester Cressen in her life made the old maester as the grandfather she lacked. He might have told her more about the Misty Wood if he were with her here.

The army had no trouble moving forward each day, though the autumn gales and rains were delaying their progress somewhat a little. The going was much slower here than it had been near Storm's End.

Instead of proper roads, they rode down crookback slashes  
that snaked this way and that, through clefts in huge moss covered rocks and down deep ravines choked with blackberry brambles. Sometimes the track petered out entirely, sinking  
into bogs or vanishing amongst the ferns, leaving her father and his army to find another way amongst the silent trees. The rain still fell, soft and steady. The sound of moisture  
dripping off the leaves was all around them, and every mile or so the music of another little waterfall would call to them. 

Near Storm's End they had often travelled after dark, when the moonlight turned the nearby blue sea to silver, but the rainwood was too full of bogs, ravines, and sinkholes, and black as pitch beneath the trees,  
where the moon was just a memory.

Argella would have favored the journey north by ships, just as they had made for Riverrun last year for Gendry's marriage to Alyssa Arryn. The thought of her goodsister brought a smile to her face. Gendry bid farewell to his young wife twice. Once in the Sept before the Warrior, in sight of gods and men. The second time beneath the portcullis, where Lady Alyssa sent him forth with a long embrace and a longer kiss. It gave her enough reason to mock him, her lovesick brother. 

The journey north by ship would've been quicker... and deadlier. She knew that Shipbreaker Bay can be perilous even on a fair summer's day. And during this time of the year with all the storms and waves it would be twice as deadly. The safer way to the Riverlands is by overland.

Ella has always dreamed of riding for battle with an army. Despite the wish being fulfilled she found it extremely boring. There was nothing interesting for her to do there. Her father was always busy, holding his war council with her brothers and her uncles. As always, Ella was not allowed. Her mother had made sure of that. Even Joffrey was allowed. That thought irked her beyond any reason. Everyone knew she was better than him at everything, older and better. Argella could batter him around the yard even without receiving the necessary skills and training from Ser Gawen Wylde, the master-at-arms of Storm's End, like Joffrey did. Still he was allowed to sit in the war council and she wasn't. She was more than wise to go and spend time with her mother. Somehow she was sure that Lady Cersei would be fuming about her husband for bringing her out here. Uncle Renly would sometime join her during supper, whenever he could step away from her father's eyes.

Often times Argella would slip away from the party, alone on her horse, to explore the massive forest around her. It was easy to get away from the large host around her without anyone noticing and somehow her instincts had always brought her back before someone raised the alarm that she's gone missing.

The wood was full of caves as well, which made for excellent adventures. The first cave she explored gave nothing but shelter, a place to get out of the wet. She had luck with some other days, finding a beautiful blue mushroom in a cave one day and a majestic white stag the size of an ox the other. The stag had come out of his place despite the rain to graze. Argella had almost killed the beautiful beast that day as she nocked the arrow, drew her bowstring and waited for the right time to loose. The rain was in her face and her bowstring wet which made it hard to hit the target for any skilled archer, but Ella knew she was better. She might have loosened the arrow and brought the beautiful animal down. She has been to hunting with her father and brothers many a times before. But as she looked at the stag, grazing gently, going on with his work she lowered her bow. When she put the bow down and slowly reached the stag, he let her pet him as if he was a lamb. Ella fed him berries and leaves from her own hands and when she had finally left him in his place and returned to hers she had been happier than ever. 

By midmorning a light rain began to fall, as they were making their way north through a land of vast green fields and little villages. As yet, they had seen no signs of fighting, but Ella knew that they might encounter anyone along the rutted road anytime. Her father had sent a scouting party under the command of her uncle Renly to make sure that they are not ambushed on the road north. 

Further north, the fields gave way to rolling hills and thick groves of old forest, the road dwindled to a track, and villages became less common.  
Dusk found them on the northern fringes of the rainwood, a wetgreen world where brooks and rivers ran through dark forests and the ground was made of mud and rotting leaves. Huge willows grew along the watercourses, larger than any that Argella had ever seen, their great trunks as gnarled and twisted as an old man's face and festooned with beards of silvery moss. 

Trees pressed close on every side, shutting out the sun; hemlock and red cedars, white oaks, soldier pines  
that stood as tall and straight as towers, colossal sentinels, bigleaf maples, redwoods, wormtrees, even here and there a wild weirwood. Underneath their tangled branches ferns and flowers grew in profusion; sword ferns, lady ferns, bellflowers  
and piper's lace, evening stars and poison kisses, liverwort, lungwort, hornwort. Mushrooms sprouted down amongst the tree roots, and from their trunks as well, pale spotted hands that caught the rain. Other trees were furred with moss, green or grey or red-tailed, and once a vivid purple. Lichens covered every rock and stone. Toadstools festered besides rotting logs.

The very air seemed green and grey. One look around her and Argella could see that the forest was aptly named. Despite travelling through the rainwood for days, Misty Wood was still a huge mystery around her with much and more still waiting to be explored.

That night they made camp in a flatland ringed by sentinels. Argella accompanied Ser Gilbert Farring to the tent of her brothers to share the night meal with them. Her brothers shared a tent much to the annoyance of Joffrey. It made very little sense to her, Gendry is the older brother, by rights he should have been the one to get annoyed to share his tent with his little brother but she knew Gendry to be well behaved than Joffrey. 

The cooks had already made a fire going in their tent and a brace of hares was hissing over the flames. Gendry was at his desk, bare-chested beneath his white cotton shirt. He was polishing his helm as always, cleaning the black steel to the highest sheen, his rain-soaked hair falling across his brow. She watched him for a moment. He had her uncle Renly's eyes and hair, but not his build. Lord Renly was more lithe than brawny while her brother inherited the muscled frame of their father Lord Robert, and his strength which was fabled. 

Joffrey was swinging his sword wildly in the other corner. He wore gilded mail and enameled crimson plate, with matching golden lions on their heads. The pale candlelight flashed off the golds and reds every time Joff moved. Bright, shining, and empty, Ella thought. He looked so stupid standing there in the middle of the forest and swinging his sword. 

When her little brother saw her he pointed his sword at her. "What are you doing here, sister," he took a couple of wild swings at her, "This tent is not for ladies. Surely you have your own." When he took another swing at her, Gendry threw his gloves right at his face from the far end of the pavilion.

"Lower your sword," he said. "How many times should I have to say that is no toy."

Joff looked enraged, as if he was going to start another one of his childish fits. 

"Stop pointing your sword at me, Joff," Ella said to him, "else I'll pull it out of your hands and throw it away."

Finally he lowered the sword. His mouth twisted oddly; if that was a smile, it was the queerest she had ever seen. "Mother says that I would soon lead my own army. I shall make you proud by fighting on your part as well since you can't do it yourself, sister. We ought to have left you off at Storm's End with the other women, now that I think on it. A war camp is not fit for a woman like you."

"I am more concerned about your well being, Joff," Argella chuckled. "Even a woman like me could still knock you down on your back."

She stepped forward and grabbed the sword by the pommel while sliding her leg between his clumsy ones and pulled him to her, knocking him face down before her while disarming the sword smoothly from his hands.

Gendry laughed, keeping his helm down on his table and came to her side. 

"As well as on your face," Gendry finished. Argella leaned against her older brother, supporting herself against him with her elbow on his muscled arm.

"Are you going to complain to mother, Joff?" Ella asked. 

Gendry looked at their younger brother on the ground. "I think he is going to cry again, Ella."

"As always," she said, laughing. "Its the only thing Joff can do better than anyone."

Joffrey looked up at them from the ground, lips quivering. He did look as if he was going to cry soon. Ella threw the sword to the ground beside him before he shames himself by crying.

"Mock me while you can." Joffrey took his sword and stood up. The sword was a beautiful blue steel, castle forged. The pommel was a golden lion's head with rubies for its eyes. Three fullers were deeply incised in the blade. Lion's Tooth was what her baby brother had named his sword. A stupid name for a sword. The sword itself was a fine weapon, the result of Donal Noye's brilliant craftsmanship, but Argella knew it was wasted on Joffrey. He was hopeless with a sword.

He'd owned a dozen swords including Lion's Tooth, but Argella knew none of them were put to the right use. All of them had been left by him to rust. 

"Mother says you'll soon go to the north to live in the frozen wasteland your husband calls as his home." He pushed his blade into the scabbard. "Go on, mock me. You might never get the chance again."

"Oh, who will make fun of you if I am gone, Joff," she said with a flourish. "Don't worry, baby brother. I'll always find a way myself to mock you."

"Will there be a battle soon?" Ella asked Gendry.

"Maybe," he said. "There's been word from King's Landing about dragons and armies. No doubt there will be someone coming down for us. Father thinks that as well."

"They say there's been fighting in the Riverlands," she said pushing her hair away from her face. "Is it true?."

That made Gendry frown. "Tyrell forces has made it to the Riverlands before us. Don't worry," he smiled at her, "nothing bad has happened to your betrothed." 

"Stop it," Argella said, smiling despite her sharp tone. 

"My lord," Ser Gawen poked his head inside the tent. "Your lord father asked for your presence."

"I'll be there at once," Gendry said and rushed to the flaps of the tent. He stopped at the entrance and looked back at her. "Throw me that fresh jerkin on my bed, Ella."

"Here," she took his jerkin from the bed and threw it at him. 

Gendry caught the jerkin. "Make sure that you both finish supper before you sleep," he with a smile and left her alone with Joffrey.

After they ate, Argella turned a stick and some dry moss into a torch, and opted to go off exploring in the nearby caves before going to sleep. 

"You should come with me, Joff," Argella told her brother. "I don't think you're having anything else to do here. There are plenty of things to explore here."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," Joff said in a boyish shout.

"Gods you're such a bore, Joff," Ella said. "How are you going to lead armies into battles if you are not even brave enough to take a night's walk in our own forest."

That must have hurt his pride. "I'm not afraid," he screeched. "I'll show it to you." He walked fastly outside the tent to prove his point. 

Argella strapped her bow and arrows to her back and rushed after him, to stop him from doing something stupid and getting caught. 

They slipped away from the camp without getting caught quite easily. They walked through the green, wet heart of the rainwood, slow going at  
the best of times. It took Argella and her brother the better part of the night before the find a perfect place for adventure. They travelled to the music of steady, lashing rains beating at the treetops up above, though underneath the green great canopy of leaves and branches she and her brother stayed surprisingly dry. 

Joffrey followed her closely, drawing his sword to every rustle of leaves and the hooting of owls, always voicing that they should start back. Still he followed her when Argella pressed forward. He was too afraid to make it back on his own, she knew.

She finally stopped by the mouth of the cave, getting out of the falling rain. "Stay close to me," Ella told him. "These caves go very deep, it is easy to get lost."

"You cannot mean to go in there all alone," Joff replied, his voice shaking.

"No," Ella said. "I'm going in there with you.

The cave proved much deeper than she had suspected. Beyond the stony mouth where they had entered, a series of twisty passageways led down and down, with black holes snaking off to either side. Further in, the walls opened up again, and the adventurers found themselves in a vast limestone cavern, larger than the great hall of a castle. Their footsteps disturbed a nest of bats, who flapped about them noisily, and distant echoes of their wings shouted back. A slow circuit of the hall revealed three further passages, one so small that it would have required them to proceed on hands and knees. 

"So which one do we try first," Argella asked. 

Joffrey eyed the first path, then at her face, then at the second and back at her face. May the Gods have mercy on anyone who would follow Joff in battle. He takes too much time to make a simple decision. 

"That one," he said at last. 

"So we take the other one," Ella said and made for the other path Joff had left out. He followed her with a scoff.

The passageway Argella had chosen for them turned steep and wet within a hundred feet. The footing grew uncertain.

Once she slipped, and had to catch herself to keep from sliding. More than once she considered turning back, but she could see Joff already afraid beyond any reason and it would do no good for him to see her unsure and backing away from the path, so she pressed on. And all at once she found herself in another cavern, five times as big as the last one, surrounded by a forest of stone columns. Joffrey moved close to her side. Argella raised her torch. "Look how the stone's been shaped," she  
said. "Those columns, and the wall there. See them?"

"Faces," said Joff, afraid. 

Faces they were. So many sad eyes, staring.

"This place belonged to the children of the forest." Argella brushed her fingers against the sad eyes of a face. "A thousand years ago." She turned her head. "Listen."

"What?" Joff asked looking this way and that around them.

"Shh," Ella shushed him. "There are voices. Listen."

There were voices. She could only barely hear them. 

"We should go back," her brother urged. 

She should go back, she knew, but her sense of adventure got the better of her. She might actually find out the Children of the Forest who are thought to have gone extinct for thousands of years. 

Ella followed the voice carefully. They made their way up a slippery slope to another hall. Their passageway led them pass a still black pool, where they discovered blind white fish swimming perfectly as if they were not blind.

Her torch started to burn red and smoky in her hands. If that torch should go out they would be alone in the dark, as good as blind. That was not the worst though. The worst of it all came in the shape of her younger brother. Ella knew its only a matter of time before Joff starts to cry. She should find out the face behind the voice soon. It seemed to come from above, now a bit more clear. That reassured her a bit. They ought to be near the surface. Clearly voices could travel only a certain distance under the ground.

Soon, when they had made their way up the stone cut steps, Ella could make it out that it was the common tongue. Do the children speak the common tongue?

Argella could now see the light of a torch, a smoking star that bid her follow. Twice it seemed to disappear, but she kept on straight, and both times she found herself at the top of steep, narrow stairs, the torch glimmering just above her. She hurried after it, up and up.

"So many?" The voices were fainter as the light dwindled ahead of her. "I never knew . . . Ser Jaime and Ser Lewyn . . . the kingsguard . . . not so easy . . . "

"No. But he did . . . Dragonslayer . . . "

" . . . .it true he killed a dragon . . . "

"No doubt. The songs say so." 

A flickering light brushed the wall ever so faintly, and she saw that she stood at the top of a great black well, a shaft twenty feet across plunging deep into the earth. Huge stones had been set into the curving walls as steps, circling down and down, dark as the steps to hell that Septon Ebrose used to tell them of. 

Argella peered over the edge and felt the cold black breath on her face. About a dozen feet away from her, she saw a freshly made fire. Two men sat around it, their backs to her. She could hear their voices, echoing against the walls of the cave.

" . . . against Ser Garlan ," one said. "The battle will come soon. A day, two days, a fortnight . . . "

"Do you think Ser Garlan could get better of the Born King?" the second man asked.

"The gods alone know," the first man said. "We ought to think more about us rather than Ser Garlan. We will soon come upon foes , I warn you. We will soon come against the Baratheon army, whether we will it or no. The princess has seen that from atop her black dragon."

"Too soon, too soon," the second man complained. 

"Do you think we have a say in the matter?" the man who seemed to be leader replied. "We are just supposed to follow orders else Lord Tarly will have our heads.

The other chuckled. "No less."

Flames licked at the cold air. Argella could make out their green cloaks and the red huntsman sigil on them. Huntsman for House Tarly, she remembered her lessons. 

Argella stepped back away from the mouth of the cavern, dropped to her knees, and pulled Joff down to her. 

"There are men from the reach in our lands," Ella hushed to him.

"We should go tell father," Joff urged.

"No," she declared. "They might come across our smallfolk and kill them. They could have spied on us and would give away our position to their lords."

"What are you going to do?"

"We," she corrected him. "Surely you've been waiting for this moment of glory." She smiled.

When Joff had nothing to say, Ella started to think about a plan to destroy the camp.

They had set up their camp beside the west end of the cave. Their supply stash was about thirty yards away. There were about a dozen of men in the camp as far as she could see, maybe more. Two of the men were posted to watch over the supplies.

"Can you make it to the supply stash without getting noticed?" she asked. 

"Why should I go?" asked Joff. "You go there if you want."

"Joff, listen," she said. "If you could provide some sort of distraction, I could take them out one by one."

"You do the distraction, I will kill them easily," said Joffrey .

"Are you sure you can do it?" Ella asked. 

Joffrey took his crossbow off the sling and pointed it at her face. "I can do it better than you."

Argella hoped he wouldn't mess it up. She was glad that he agreed to do something.

Her close proximity to the enemy camp sharpened her senses. The closer I get to them, the more guarded I am, she thought. No one would bother to check for an enemy right next to them. She moved slowly for the huge rock in the shadowed corner near the supply stash, pausing frequently to listen for unnatural sounds, an arrow already fitted into the string of her bow. She didn't see any other men other than the ones she had marked, but she did notice some of the things she hasn't noticed before. Patches of the sweet berries. A bush with the green leaves that would heal stings. Clusters of trees surrounded the vicinity of the cave, making the cave itself a stronghold. And here and there, the black-and-white flash of a mockingjay wing in the branches high over the cave.

She reached the rock and paused a moment, to gather her courage. She knew how to reach the best spying place and how to stay there waiting, calm and patient. Remember, Ella told herself. You're the hunter now, not them. She got a firmer grasp on my bow and went on. She got behind the rock and saw that she could see the entirety of the camp without being seen. It's right at the edge of the cave, and the shadowed nook is so dark, away from the light that she could easily observe the enemy camp without being spotted. Between her and the men lay the dark emptiness which shadowed her under its cloak.

There were four men inside the cave. The two men by the fire, and the other two guarding the supplies. Argella made her first target, a scrawny, ashen-skinned man who must be about her uncle Renly's age. He made almost no impression on her, only he was at the wrong place the wrong time. She knew almost nothing about him. Even now, as he sat there fiddling with some kind of wooden box, he's easily ignored in the presence of his large and noisy companions. But he must be of some value or they wouldn't have bothered to send him here. 

All four men seemed to be at ease without the thought of a stranger in their camp. The others were sprinkled around the perimeter of the cave, guarding the camp from all sides. 

The supply stash sits in a perfect position, guarding her from the sight of the men. Most of the supplies held in sacks, and wooden crates, were piled neatly in a pyramid a good distance from the fire. 

The whole setup perplexed her completely. The distance between the men, the close guards and the fire. Looking at them Argella knew one thing for sure, destroying the camp was not going to be as simple as it looked. 

She signalled to Joff and got him ready. When he nodded, Ella picked up a stone and threw it so it bounced off the hard rock near him with a clang.

That got the attention of the men inside the cave. "What's that?" someone asked.

"Go check it out," the man near the flames said.

Her target stood up and walked over to Joffrey. He moved close to Joff, close enough for an easy shot. The bolt her brother loosed left his crossbow with a loud thrum . . . And missed. He is incompetent with a bow as he is with a sword.

"Intruders," the soldier cried at once.

The cry from the soldier showed his companions this was not mere jest. All of them reached for their weapons. The man who raised the alarm was standing above Joff, spear in hand. Her brother was pale and frozen in fear. Looking at him there facing death, Argella thought of nothing other than saving her baby brother, cautions be damned. She vaulted over the rock, bow in hand.

The man who would've killed her brother died before he could drive the spear into Joff. Her arrow drove deeply into the center of his neck. He fell to his knees and halved the brief remainder of his life by yanking out the arrow and drowning in his own blood. Ella reloaded, shifting her aim from side to side. She shot again and again as the men came for them.

She skewered a big man right through the heart. Then severed the windpipe of an aiming archer. Without pausing, she shoulder-rolled forward, came up on one knee, and send an arrow into one of the legs of a man rushing towards Joff, just above his knee and brought him down quickly with an arrow through his eye in rapid succession. 

It was excellent shooting. Her heart started to pound, whether it was because of pride or panic she could not say. Without thinking, she pulled another arrow from her quiver searching for another target.

. . . and someone crashed into her, shrieking.

He fell on her like an avalanche of wet wool and steel, lifting her off her feet and slamming her down into the ground. The impact with the hard-packed earth of the plain knocked the wind out of her. All the air was driven out of her, and her head snapped down against some half-buried stone with a crack. "No," was all that she had time to say before he fell on top of her, his weight driving her deeper into the ground. One of his hands groped for her throat, choking her. Her bow was gone, torn from her grasp. She had only her hands to fight him off, but when she slammed a fist into his face it was like punching a ball of wet white dough. He hissed at her.

She hit him again, again, again, smashing the heel of her hand into his eye, but he did not seem to feel her blows. She clawed at his wrists, but his grip just grew tighter, though blood ran from the gouges where she scratched him. He was crushing her, smothering her. She pushed at his shoulders to get him off her, but he was heavy as a horse, impossible to move. When she tried to knee him in the groin, all she did was drive her knee into his belly.

My arrow. Argella clutched at the thought, desperate. She worked her hand down between them, fingers squirming until she had a good grip. With him on top of her, she could not raise the arrowhead to stab, so she drew it hard across his belly. Something warm and wet gushed between her fingers. The man hissed again, louder than before, and stilled above her. She shoved the corpse off her and stood up. The pain blinded her for an instant.

Joffrey was still hiding behind a rock. Surprisingly none of them came against them.

Outside, it appeared as if some fighting was going on. She recognized a few of her father's riders who were bowmen, skilled at shooting from a running horse. Riding swiftly into range they shot arrows at the Tarly guards, and several of them fell; then the riders wheeled away out of the range of the answering bows of their enemies, who shot wildly, not daring to halt. 

She could see that the reachmen had somehow tripled their numbers. The song of swords rang faintly, and steel glinted a little in the light of the fires. Arrows came whistling out of the gloom: it was aimed with skill, or guided by fate, and it pierced through a man beside her. There was a quick beat of hoofs, and as one of the stragglers leaped up and ran, he was ridden down and a spear passed through him. He gave a hideous shivering cry and lay still.

Outside the circle of watch-fires, the Tyrell men stood their ground from the direction of the forest and the mountains. They were attacking the Baratheon riders. There was the sound of galloping horses. The Riders were drawing in their ring close round the knoll, risking the enemy arrows, so as to prevent any sortie, while a company rode off to deal with the others. 

The sounds had died away a few moments later. Evidently the scouts had been killed or driven off. The Baratheon riders had returned to their silent ominous vigil. It would not last very much longer. Already the night was old. In the East, which had remained unclouded, the sky was beginning to grow pale.

"Joff," Ella called picking up her bow, "come. It will be easy for us if we follow these riders to get back to our camp." Joffrey got up and stamped his feet, his armor clanking.

When they came out into the open, a horseman came riding swiftly to them. The rider's armor was a deep green, the green of leaves in the rainwood, so dark it drank the light of the torches. Gold highlights gleamed from inlay and fastenings like distant fires in that wood, winking every time he moved. His helm was green as well, with two majestic antlers of gold rising from the brows. 

He halted before them and took the helmet off. Underneath his helm, his long black hair was tied up into knot with a golden velvet ribbon. Despite the sweat upon his face, her uncle was handsome and splendid as always.

"What is my wild neice doing in the middle of an enemy camp?" Renly Baratheon asked with a smile.

"Its a long story," Ella told him.

"You're hurt." He touched the bruise which had reddened her cheekbone. His glove was covered in blood and he left a smear of blood where he touched.

"It's nothing," she replied and pulled him down to the ground. "Uncle, I want to see father."

Her uncle chuckled. "No doubt Robert wants to see you as well."

"No you don't understand," she said. "Its urgent."

"Patience, young lady," he said. "Don't fly like a mockingjay." It was then her uncle eyed her brother beside her. "So you are here as well, huh, Joff? Why are you shaking anyway?"

"He is just afraid," she said. "That's all."

"I'm not afraid," Joffrey snapped.

"I could see that," her uncle said. He looked behind them and saw the felled bodies of men brought down by her arrows. "Sometimes I think the gods play mockery of our family, Joff. You should be protecting your sister, not the other way around." He smiled. "Now let me go and clean this blood off me. Get some rest, both of you. We'll be leaving soon."

"We'll need horses," Argella said as her uncle walked away.

"Don't worry," he told her. "You can have the horses of my men who weren't as lucky as you."

After they had laid their fallen comrades in a mound and had sung their praises, the Riders of Stormlands made a great fire and scattered the ashes of their enemies. So ended the scout of the reachmen, and no news of it came ever back either to their lords or to the dragon princess; but the smoke of the burning rose high to heaven and was seen by many watchful eyes.

As they made their way back to her father's camp, Ella found herself filled with the thoughts of the men she had killed. Numerous animals had lost their lives at her hands, but never a human. Until today. She could hear Gendry saying, "How different can it be, really?" Ella remembered him saying it when she had asked him about it.

She mused how true he had been. Amazingly similar in the execution. A bow pulled, an arrow shot. But entirely different in the aftermath. She killed a man whose name she doesn't even know. Somewhere his family is weeping for him. His friends call for my blood. Maybe he had a wife or a lover who really believed he would come back.

But then she thought of her brother's still body and she was able to banish the man from her mind. At least, for now.

The journey back takes longer than she expected, even on horseback. Ella supposed that the path through the caves is far shorter and more quicker than this original one.

When they get back, she quickly makes her way to her father's tent.

It was all of golden silk, the largest and grandest structure in the camp. Outside the entrance, Lord Robert's warhammer was displayed beside an immense iron shield blazoned with the crowned stag of House Baratheon. Both her uncles' pavilions flanked it. Uncle Stannis' tent was a dour grey while a great green silk made up Uncle Renly's. The candles within Renly's pavilion made the shimmering silken walls seem to glow, transforming the great tent into a magical castle alive with emerald light. Two of her father's guard stood sentry at the door to the lord's pavilion.

Within, her father was busy talking with Uncle Stannis when Renly Baratheon marched her in, an oil lamp glowing softly at his elbow. He looked up to listen to his brother's report. 

"You realize I had half my men out searching for you two?" Robert Baratheon said when Renly was done. "Your mother is beside herself with fear. And your brother is away in the forest looking for you. Argella, you know you are never to go beyond the camp without my leave."

"I didn't go far away from the camp," she blurted. "Well, I didn't mean to. I was in a cave, only they turned into this tunnel. It was all dark, and I heard voices, so I had to follow. Father, there were reachmen in our lands. They were talking about fighting you! I heard them. They said they know they will come upon you soon. That the princess atop the dragon told them so."

"Dragon? Argella, what are you talking about? Who said this?" He looked to uncle Renly for an answer.

"We came across a group of Tyrell outriders," her uncle said. "But we know nothing of dragons or princesses."

"They knew," she told him. "They were talking about it." She tried to remember the rest. "The princess was scouting for them with the black dragon. She tells them the positions of our army and our strength."

"Black dragon," said Robert, unsmiling. 

"Daenerys must have come from King's Landing," Uncle Stannis clenched his jaw.

"We will talk about it later, Argella," her father said. "Now go take your brother and let your mother know that you are back. And check with the maester for that bruise."

"But father . . . " She screwed up her face. 

"I get it," her father said, "but later. It would seem you've had quite an adventure. You need rest."

"Yes," Argella admitted, "only—"

"Look at you, sweetling. Your cheek is bruised," her father said. "Go see the maester. We'll talk later."

With that she was marched out of the tent, the talk of dragons and dragonslayers fresh on her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a look at Stormlands through the eyes of Argella. Hope you guys like it. Took a hard time to finally finish it off. Please leave a comment and let me know what you guys think about it. And I hope everyone is hale and healthy, away from the deadly disease. Take care of yourselves and your loved ones. As always thanks for reading my story and stay safe. Have a nice day.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Jaehaerys** _

Othor," announced Ser Jaremy Rykker, "beyond a doubt. And this one was Jafer Flowers." He turned the corpse over with his foot, and the dead white face stared up at the overcast sky with blue, blue eyes. "They were Ben Stark's men, both of them."

My uncle's men, Jaehaerys Targaryen thought numbly. He remembered how Benjen Stark had rode out with his men, with a small laugh which lightened his eyes. Jae had cared nothing for the man then, but now he wondered if he was alive and safe. Gods, I was such a green boy. A boy who was playing the spoilt child who was demanding attention . . .

Jafer's right wrist ended in the ruin of torn flesh and splintered bone left by Ser Jaremy's sword. His right hand was floating in a jar of vinegar back in Maester Aemon's tower. His left hand, still at the end of his arm, was as black as his cloak.

"Gods have mercy," the Old Bear muttered. He swung down from his garron, handing his reins to Jaehaerys. The morning was unnaturally warm; beads of sweat dotted the Lord Commander's broad forehead like dew on a melon. His horse was nervous, rolling her eyes, backing away from the dead men as far as her lead would allow. Jae led her off a few paces, fighting to keep her from bolting. The horses did not like the feel of this place. For that matter, neither did Jaehaerys.

The dogs liked it least of all. When Bass the kennelmaster had tried to get them to take the scent from the severed hand, they had gone wild, yowling and barking, fighting to get away. Even now they were snarling and whimpering by turns, pulling at their leashes while Chett cursed them for curs.

It is only a wood, Jae told himself, and they're only dead men. He had seen dead men before, killed men before.

Last night he had dreamt a dreadful dream. The dead men had come stumbling from their cold black graves. Jaehaerys had woken in pitch-dark, his heart hammering. In his deep sense of terror, he dared not go back to sleep. Instead he had climbed the Wall and walked, restless, until he saw the light of the dawn off to the cast. It was only a dream. I am a brother of the Night's Watch now, not a frightened boy.

Samwell Tarly huddled beneath the trees, half-hidden behind the horses. His round fat face was the color of curdled milk. So far he had not lurched off to the woods to retch, but he had not so much as glanced at the dead men either. "I can't look," he whispered miserably.

"You have to look," Jaehaerys told him, keeping his voice low so the others would not hear. "Maester Aemon sent you to be his eyes, didn't he? What good are eyes if they're shut?"

"Yes, but . . . I'm such a coward, Jae."

Jaehaerys put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "We have a dozen rangers with us, and the dogs. No one will hurt you, Sam. Go ahead and look. The first look is the hardest."

Sam gave a tremulous nod, working up his courage with a visible effort. Slowly he swiveled his head. His eyes widened, but Jaehaerys held his arm so he could not turn away.

"Ser Jaremy," the Old Bear asked gruffly, "Ben Stark had six men with him when he rode from the Wall. Where are the others?"

Ser Jaremy shook his head. "Would that I knew."

Plainly Mormont was not pleased with that answer. "Two of our brothers butchered almost within sight of the Wall, yet your rangers heard nothing, saw nothing. Is this what the Night's Watch has fallen to? Do we still sweep these woods?"

"Yes, my lord, but—"

"Do we still mount watches?"

"We do, but—"

"This man wears a hunting horn." Mormont pointed at Othor. "Must I suppose that he died without sounding it? Or have your rangers all gone deaf as well as blind?"

Ser Jaremy bristled, his face taut with anger. "No horn was blown, my lord, or my rangers would have heard it. I do not have sufficient men to mount as many patrols as I should like . . . and since Benjen was lost, we have stayed closer to the Wall than we were wont to do before, by your own command."

The Old Bear grunted. "Yes. Well. Be that as it may." He made an impatient gesture. "Tell me how they died."

Squatting beside the dead man he had named Jafer Flowers, Ser Jaremy grasped his head by the scalp. The hair came out between his fingers, brittle as straw. The knight cursed and shoved at the face with the heel of his hand. A great gash in the side of the corpse's neck opened like a mouth, crusted with dried blood. Only a few ropes of pale tendon still attached the head to the neck. "This was done with an axe."

"Aye," muttered Dywen, the old forester. "Belike the axe that Othor carried, m'lord."

Jaehaerys could feel his breakfast churning in his belly, but he pressed his lips together and made himself look at the second body. Othor had been a big ugly man, and he made a big ugly corpse. No axe was in evidence. Jaehaerys remembered Othor; he had been the one bellowing the bawdy song as the rangers rode out. His singing days were done. His flesh was blanched white as milk, everywhere but his hands. His hands were black like Jafer's. Blossoms of hard cracked blood decorated the mortal wounds that covered him like a rash, breast and groin and throat. Yet his eyes were still open. They stared up at the sky, blue as sapphires.

Ser Jaremy stood. "The wildlings have axes too."

Mormont rounded on him. "So you believe this is Mance Rayder's work? This close to the Wall?"

"Who else, my lord?"

Jae could have told him. He knew, they all knew, yet no man of them would say the words. The Others are only a story, his father has told a lot about them. He had always thought of them as a tale told to the shiver of the children. It would be foolish to think of it otherwise.

Lord Commander Mormont gave a snort. "If Ben Stark had come under wildling attack a half day's ride from Castle Black, he would have returned for more men, chased the killers through all seven hells and brought me back their heads."

"Unless he was slain as well," Ser Jaremy insisted. "It has been many moons since Benjen left us, my lord," Ser Jaremy went on. "The forest is vast. The wildlings might have fallen on him anywhere. I'd wager these two were the last survivors of his party, on their way back to us . . . but the enemy caught them before they could reach the safety of the Wall. The corpses are still fresh, these men cannot have been dead more than a day . . . ."

"No," Samwell Tarly squeaked.

Jaehaerys was startled. Sam's nervous, high-pitched voice was the last he would have expected to hear. The fat boy was frightened of the officers, and Ser Jaremy was not known for his patience.

"I did not ask for your views, boy," Rykker said coldly.

"Let him speak, ser," Jaehaerys said.

Mormont's eyes flicked from Sam to Jaehaerys and back again. "If the lad has something to say, I'll hear him out. Come closer, boy. We can't see you behind those horses."

Sam edged past Jae and the garrons, sweating profusely. "My lord, it . . . it can't be a day or . . . look . . . the blood . . . "

"Yes?" Mormont growled impatiently. "Blood, what of it?"

"He soils his smallclothes at the sight of it," Chett shouted out, and the rangers laughed.

"Let him talk," Jae spoke for his friend. "Maester Aemon himself sent him here in his stead." The men backed off at that. They still fear my position and name. It still had its profits.

Sam mopped at the sweat on his brow. "You . . . you can see where Ser Jaremy's sword . . . you can see where he cut off that man's hand, and yet . . . the stump hasn't bled, look . . . " He waved a hand. "My father . . . L-lord Randyll, he, he made me watch him dress animals sometimes, when . . . after . . . " Sam shook his head from side to side, his chins quivering. Now that he had looked at the bodies, he could not seem to look away. "A fresh kill . . . the blood would still flow, my lords. Later . . . later it would be clotted, like a . . . a jelly, thick and . . . and . . . " He looked as though he was going to be sick. "This man . . . look at the wrist, it's all . . . crusty . . . dry . . . like . . . "

Jaehaerys saw at once what Sam meant. He could see the torn veins in the dead man's wrist, iron worms in the pale flesh. His blood was a black dust. Yet Jaremy Rykker was unconvinced. "If they'd been dead much longer than a day, they'd be ripe by now, boy. They don't even smell."

Dywen, the gnarled old forester who liked to boast that he could smell snow coming on, sidled closer to the corpses and took a whiff. "Well, they're no pansy flowers, but . . . m'lord has the truth of it. There's no corpse stink."

"They . . . they aren't rotting." Sam pointed, his fat finger shaking only a little. "Look, there's . . . there's no maggots or . . . or . . . worms or anything . . . they've been lying here in the woods, but they . . . they haven't been chewed or eaten by animals . . . "

The rangers exchanged glances; they could see it was true, every man of them. Mormont frowned, glancing from the corpses to the dogs. "Chett, bring the hounds closer."

Chett tried, cursing, yanking on the leashes, giving one animal a lick of his boot. Most of the dogs just whimpered and planted their feet. He tried dragging one. The bitch resisted, growling and squirming as if to escape her collar. Finally she lunged at him. Chett dropped the leash and stumbled backward. The dog leapt over him and bounded off into the trees.

"This . . . this is all wrong," Sam Tarly said earnestly. "The blood . . . there's bloodstains on their clothes, and . . . and their flesh, dry and hard, but . . . there's none on the ground, or . . . anywhere. With those . . . those . . . those . . . " Sam made himself swallow, took a deep breath. "With those wounds . . . terrible wounds . . . there should be blood all over. Shouldn't there?"

Dywen sucked at his wooden teeth. "Might be they didn't die here. Might be someone brought 'em and left 'em for us. A warning, as like." The old forester peered down suspiciously. "And might be I'm a fool, but I don't know that Othor never had no blue eyes afore."

Ser Jaremy looked startled. "Neither did Flowers," he blurted, turning to stare at the dead man.

A silence fell over the wood. For a moment all they heard was Sam's heavy breathing and the wet sound of Dywen sucking on his teeth. Jaehaerys squatted beside the corpses. Could it be what Dywen said was true? Were the bodies left as a warning? He'd heard of that before. Andrew Stark had done the same when he killed his uncle in Braavos. 

"Burn them," someone whispered. One of the rangers; Jaehaerys could not have said who. "Yes, burn them," a second voice urged.

The Old Bear gave a stubborn shake of his head. "Not yet. I want Maester Aemon to have a look at them. We'll bring them back to the Wall."

Some commands are more easily given than obeyed. They wrapped the dead men in cloaks, but when Hake and Dywen tried to tie one onto a horse, the animal went mad, screaming and rearing, lashing out with its hooves, even biting at Ketter when he ran to help. The rangers had no better luck with the other garrons; not even the most placid wanted any part of these burdens. In the end they were forced to hack off branches and fashion crude slings to carry the corpses back on foot. It was well past midday by the time they started back.

"I will have these woods searched," Mormont commanded Ser Jaremy as they set out. "Every tree, every rock, every bush, and every foot of muddy ground within ten leagues of here. Use all the men you have, and if you do not have enough, borrow hunters and foresters from the stewards. If Ben and the others are out here, dead or alive, I will have them found. And if there is anyone else in these woods, I will know of it. You are to track them and take them, alive if possible. Is that understood?"

"It is, my lord," Ser Jaremy said. "It will be done."

After that, Mormont rode in silence, brooding. Jaehaerys followed close behind him; as the Lord Commander's steward, that was his place. Ser Gwayne rode behind him. The day was grey, damp, overcast, the sort of day that made you wish for rain. No wind stirred the wood; the air hung humid and heavy, and Jae's clothes clung to his skin. It was warm. Too warm. The Wall was weeping copiously, had been weeping for days, and sometimes Jaehaerys even imagined it was shrinking.

The old men called this weather spirit summer, and said it meant the season was giving up its ghosts at last. After this the cold would come, they warned, and a long summer always meant a long winter. This summer had lasted ten years. Jaehaerys had been a babe in arms when it began.

When he caught his first glimpse of the Wall looming above the tops of an ancient gnarled oak, he was vastly relieved. Mormont reined up suddenly and turned in his saddle. "Tarly," he barked, "come here."

Jaehaerys saw the start of fright on Sam's face as he lumbered up on his mare; doubtless he thought he was in trouble. "You're fat but you're not stupid, boy," the Old Bear said gruffly. "You did well back there. And you, Jaehaerys."

Sam blushed a vivid crimson and tripped over his own tongue as he tried to stammer out a courtesy. Jaehaerys had to smile.

When they emerged from under the trees, Mormont spurred his tough little garron to a trot. High above, the men on the Wall saw the column approaching. Jaehaerys heard the deep, throaty call of the watchman's great horn, calling out across the miles; a single long blast that shuddered through the trees and echoed off the ice.

UUUUUUUOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooo.

The sound faded slowly to silence. One blast meant rangers returning, and Jaehaerys thought, I was a ranger for one day, at least. 

Bowen Marsh was waiting at the first gate as they led their garrons through the icy tunnel. The Lord Steward was red-faced and agitated. "My lord," he blurted at Mormont as he swung open the iron bars, "there's been a bird, you must come at once."

"What is it, man?" Mormont said gruffly.

Curiously, Marsh glanced at Jaehaerys before he answered. "Maester Aemon has the letter. He's waiting in your solar."

"Very well. Jaehaerys , see to my horse, and tell Ser Jaremy to put the dead men in a storeroom until the maester is ready for them." Mormont strode away grumbling.

As they led their horses back to the stable, Jaehaerys was uncomfortably aware that people were watching him. Ser Alliser Thorne was drilling his boys in the yard, but he broke off to stare at him, a faint half smile on his lips.

Something's wrong, Jaehaerys knew. Something's very wrong. Had something happened to his brother? Or father? He still remembered Andrew Stark's words. Even now his words chilled him to the bone.

The dead men were carried to one of the storerooms along the base of the Wall, a dark cold cell chiseled from the ice and used to keep meat and grain and sometimes even beer. Jaehaerys saw that Mormont's horse was fed and watered and groomed before he took care of his own. Afterward he went to see if the Old Bear has any need of him.

He walked to the Lord Commander's Tower alone, with a curious sense of apprehension. The brothers on guard eyed him solemnly as he approached. "The Old Bear's in his solar," one of them announced. "He was asking for you."

Jaehaerys nodded. He climbed the tower steps briskly. He wants wine or a fire in his hearth, that's all, he told himself.

When he entered the solar, Mormont's raven screamed at him. "Corn!" the bird shrieked. "Corn! Corn! Corn!"

"Don't you believe it, I just fed him," the Old Bear growled. He was seated by the window, reading a letter. "Bring me a cup of wine, and pour one for yourself."

"For myself, my lord?"

Mormont lifted his eyes from the letter to stare at Jaehaerys. "You heard me."

"Sit," Mormont commanded him when he was done. "Drink."

Jaehaerys remained standing. "It's my father, isn't it?"

The Old Bear tapped the letter with a finger. "Your father has declared King Andrew a traitor," he rumbled. " Your brother is in the field with all the power of the Red Keep behind him." 

"Has something happened to Aegon?"

"No," said Mormont. "So far he's not yet met with opposition."

For a moment, Jaehaerys thought of Aegon meeting the same fate like him. His brother here. That was a strange thought, and strangely uncomfortable. It would be a monstrous injustice to strip him of the crown and force him to take the black, and yet if it meant his life . . . No, Aegon would never fail their father the way he'd failed.

Mormont sipped his wine. "This could not have happened at a worse time. There are dark days and cold nights ahead, I feel it in my bones . . . " He gave Jaehaerys a long shrewd look. "I hope you are not thinking of doing anything stupid, boy."

It's still my family, Jaehaerys wanted to say, but he knew that Mormont would not want to hear it. His throat was dry. He made himself take another sip of wine.

"Your duty is here now," the Lord Commander reminded him. "Your old life ended when you took the black." His bird made a raucous echo. "Black." Mormont took no notice. "Whatever they do in the south is none of our concern." When Jaehaerys did not answer, the old man finished his wine and said, "You're free to go. I'll have no further need of you today."

Jaehaerys did not remember standing or leaving the solar. The next he knew, he was descending the tower steps, thinking, This is my father, my brother, how can it be none of my concern? Then the Old Maester's voice sounded from somewhere inside. Jaehaerys thought of Ser Gwayne and felt ashamed at once for even thinking it.

He spent the rest of the day all alone. The north wind began to blow strongly once the sun went down. Inside his room, Jaehaerys Targaryen stayed awake in bed for a long time, thinking about his family, and staring at the candle on the table beside his narrow bed. The flame flickered and swayed, the shadows moved around him, the room seemed to grow darker and colder. I will not sleep tonight, Jaehaerys thought.

Yet he must have dozed. He had seen the dead Othor walking. He must've dreamt it. There was no other way he could've seen it rather than in a dream. Dead men do not walk. The candle nearby had long since burned out. He was trembling, violently. When had it gotten so cold?

Slowly, Jaehaerys pushed himself to his feet. He was shivering uncontrollably. He had to see it for himself, that he'd just seen a bad dream. His sword was in its sheath. Jaehaerys reached and worked it free. The heft of steel in his fist made him bolder. 

Three quick steps brought him to the door. He grabbed the handle and pulled it inward. The creak of the hinges almost made him jump.

He started climbing up the narrow steps. That was when he heard it; the soft scrape of a boot on stone, the sound of a latch turning. The sounds came from above. From the Lord Commander's chambers.

It can't be, Jaehaerys told himself. This is the Lord Commander's Tower, it's guarded day and night, this couldn't happen, it's a dream, I'm having a nightmare.

A nightmare this might be, yet it was no dream.

He moved up the steps. Shadows lurked in every turn of the stair. Jaehaerys crept up warily, probing any suspicious darkness with the point of his sword.

Suddenly he heard the shriek of Mormont's raven. "Corn," the bird was screaming. "Corn, corn, corn, corn, corn, corn." The door to Mormont's solar was wide open. Jaehaerys stopped in the doorway, blade in hand, giving his eyes a moment to adjust. Heavy drapes had been pulled across the windows, and the darkness was black as ink. "Who's there?" he called out.

Then he saw it, a shadow in the shadows, sliding toward the inner door that led to Mormont's sleeping cell, a man-shape all in black, cloaked and hooded . . . but beneath the hood, its eyes shone like clear blue sapphires . . .

Jaehaerys felt as blind as Maester Aemon, but had no time to be afraid. He threw himself forward, shouting, bringing down the longsword with all his weight behind it. Steel sheared through sleeve and skin and bone, yet the sound was wrong somehow. The smell that engulfed him was so queer and cold he almost gagged. He saw arm and hand on the floor, black fingers wriggling in a pool of moonlight. 

The hooded man lifted his pale moon face, and Jaehaerys slashed at it without hesitation. The sword laid the intruder open to the bone, taking off half his nose and opening a gash cheek to cheek under those eyes, eyes, eyes like blue stars burning. Suddenly Jaehaerys knew that face. Othor, he thought, reeling back. Gods, he's dead, he's dead, I saw him dead. This is no dream.

He felt something scrabble at his ankle. Black fingers clawed at his calf. The arm was crawling up his leg, ripping at wool and flesh. Shouting with revulsion, Jaehaerys pried the fingers off his leg with the point of his sword and flipped the thing away. It lay writhing, fingers opening and closing.

The corpse lurched forward. There was no blood. One-armed, face cut near in half, it seemed to feel nothing. Jaehaerys held the longsword before him. "Stay away!" he commanded, his voice gone shrill. The severed arm was wriggling out of its torn sleeve, a pale snake with a black five-fingered head. Jae stomped hard on it with the heel of his boots. Finger bones crunched. He hacked at the corpse's neck, as it stepped forward.

Dead Othor slammed into him, knocking him off his feet.

Jaehaerys' breath went out of him as the fallen table caught him between his shoulder blades. The sword, where was the sword? He'd lost the damned sword! When he opened his mouth to scream, the wight jammed its black corpse fingers into his mouth. Gagging, he tried to shove it off, but the dead man was too heavy. Its hand forced itself farther down his throat, icy cold, choking him. Its face was against his own, filling the world. Jaehaerys raked cold flesh with his nails and kicked at the thing's legs. He bit the cold fingers in his mouth and chewed them off. The corpse felt nothing but the lack of fingers allowed him to breathe. It was all Jaehaerys needed as he rolled over. He smashed the frozen nose with the heel of his hand and got away from its grasp, retching and shaking.

Jaehaerys looked for his sword desperately . . . . . . and saw Lord Mormont, groggy from sleep, standing in the doorway with an oil lamp in hand. 

Jaehaerys tried to shout, but his voice was gone. Staggering to his feet, he snatched the lamp from the Old Bear's fingers. The flame flickered and almost died. 

Spinning, Jaehaerys smashed the lamp into the black face of the nearing corpse with both hands. Metal crunched, glass shattered, oil spewed, and Dead Othor went up in a great whoosh of flame. 

The blow came a bit late. Othor bulled into him, flames and all. Jae's black jerkin took fire at once. But the heat of the flames on his face was sweeter than any kiss Jaehaerys had ever known. 

He picked up the sword and eyed the corpse across him. The flames had spread all along his jerkin. Jaehaerys welcomed the heat, he's always welcomed it. 

The burning corpse did not share his feelings though. It seemed as if it was afraid of the fire. For the first time that day Jaehaerys felt a bit of happiness. As he rushed forward to meet the corpse, sword in hand and covered in flaming clothes the dead man backed. 

He reached the corpse and hacked at it with wild swings of his sword. When the dead thing put his hand on Jae to hurt him it burned. Cloaked in fire Jaehaerys hacked the thing again and again until the corpse dropped down into several chunks of burning meat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a simple man who believes in redemption. What are human beings worth without redemption? What is humanity itself without redemption? So here he is in his own path of redemption. I hope you guys like it. Leave a comment and let me know what you think. I'd love to hear your thoughts. Thanks for reading my story and have a nice day.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Asher** _

Edgar Dustin and Owen of Stardom had led twenty men and gone ahead to scout, and it was them who brought back word of the clear road at the crossroads. 

"For the inn, Asher?" Ethan Hunt asked.

"Mmm," Asher said deep in thought. He surveyed his army: near three hundred heavy horses, five hundred of light cavalry and the larger part of them footmen. Bill Dustin was leading the men on foot behind him. He wondered how long he would have to stay here and hold the ford. Lord Arryn might be close already. It didn't matter anyway, he'd promised Andrew that he would hold the ford and he intended to do it for as long as he could. "It might be best if we set up our camp and defences as quick as possible," he suggested.

"Might be," said Denys Snow. "We might come against opposition before Lord Arryn arrives."

Jon Locke glowered, a fearsome sight to see. "Why waste time when you have the land in sight?"

"We ought to have that inn, my lord," Finnick the Orphan-Captain said. "Its too good a place to defend against armies twice our numbers."

"Wait for it until you're sure that no one is hiding for us in or around the inn." Reyna Longbraid was a small hard woman, flat as a boy, and no fool.

"Its clear, Asher," Edgar said. "It seems all is well and clear at the inn. We shall ride for the crossroads in peace." 

"The cavalry shall come with me to the inn," Asher said. "Send a rider back to Bill telling him to bring the foot here and not in a rush."

He put his heels to his horse and trotted off, his men following him. Edgar and Owen rode with him. Behind them Ethan, Denys and the other High Officers of the Company of the Rose followed on their own garrons.

The officers rode together, and Finnick and Reyna stayed close to each other rather than with the others. It was not a secret in the company that Finnick and Reyna stayed in the same tent most nights. 

He could use those distant towers of unmortared stone and post watchers in them to watch the lands around for enemy movements. As their party down the kingsroad, Asher saw that the crossroads was a perfect position to hold command of both the Trident and the Kingsguard. Where the Kingsroad twisted into a narrow causeway with the river close on one side and a short, wide wall of dry stone, Asher Forrester came to find his first strong point. "Owen," he called for his friend, "gather some men and block the road to the north here. A low earthen wall four feet should close off the road, and put a dozen crossbowmen to man the heights." Asher halted his followers there and pointed to Gilden Norrey in their company. "Norrey you have the command here. No one gets in or out without my leave." 

The work was quick to start, and the wall started to come up. They trotted past green fields and stone and wooden holdfasts alike, down to the crossroads and the Green Fork of the Trident. Asher saw that the river had quieted a great deal now as it ran quiet and calm nearby. The air was fresh and light without the hint of rain. The day was clear with the sunlight shimmering upon the clear water of the Green Fork. A perfect day for fording the river, Asher thought. He hoped that the weather would not betray them and will stay calm until Lord Arryn comes down by the high road.

Half a league from the crossroads, Asher stopped and called for Finnick. "Erect a barricade of sharpened stakes around the perimeter of the the Crossroads Inn. Man the barricade with pikemen and archers all the time. Spread out our camp behind the line. We will take the inn at the crossroads for the quarters of the high officers for our stay here." He turned to look at the man to whom he gave the command. "And remember no pillaging or raping." 

"As you say, my lord." Finnick wheeled his horse about and shouted commands. Men went about to collect logs for the rows of stakes to make a line of barricade. Asher led his party through.

It was near midday when they reached it, at the crossroads north of the great confluence of the Trident.

The crossroads gave him pause. If they turned west from here, it was an easy ride down to Riverrun across the Green Fork. Andrew would be on his way there already, to the defence of Riverrun against the gathering storm. When Winterfell braced for war, so did its allies in the south. With Riverrun so much closer to King's Landing, it was there the wrath of the dragons was directed. The king, his friend was every bit the good man he'd known, came to the help of his allies. Asher could only hope that they were not so late. In the past few days they've been hearing more of fighting in the riverlands with Garlan Tyrell smashing their friends, the river lords all the way from Stoney Sept to Riverrun. 

The eastern road was wilder and more dangerous, climbing through rocky foothills and thick forests into the Mountains of the Moon, past high passes and deep chasms to the Vale of Arryn and the stony Fingers beyond. Above the Vale, the Eyrie stood high and impregnable, its towers reaching for the sky. Lord Arryn would be coming down that way, and with him came the eastern lords who owed service to the Arryns for war.

There was life at the crossroads inn, though. Even before they reached the gate, Asher heard the sound: a clamour of steel and gaggle of children.

"Children," Edgar said. "Either they are the old innkeep's or there are visitors." He put his heels into his horse. 

"I hope they have a visiting cook as well," Jon Locke said. "A crisp roast chicken would set the world aright."

The inn's yard was a sea of brown mud that sucked at the hooves of the horses. The sound of children was louder here, and Asher saw that there were no horses in the stables. So there are no visitors here. A small boy was swinging from the rusted chains of the weathered gibbet that loomed above the yard. Four girls stood on the inn's porch, watching him. The youngest was no more than two. The oldest, nine or ten, stood with her arms protectively about the little one. "Girls," Ethan Hunt called to them, "run and fetch your mother."

The boy dropped from the chain and dashed off toward the stables. The four girls stood fidgeting. After a moment one said, "We have no mothers," and another added, "I had one but they killed her." The oldest of the four stepped forward, pushing the little one behind her skirts. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"Honest men of King Andrew Stark of Winterfell," Asher told her. "Who are you?"

"The Born King." The girl on the porch was surprised to hear about Andrew. She looked the army behind him over, wary as only a ten-year-old can be. "I'm Willow. Are you here to stay in the inn?"

"Beds, and ale, and hot food to fill our bellies," said Denys Snow as he dismounted. "Are you the innkeep?"

She shook her head. "That's my sister Jeyne. She takes care of the inn when aunt Masha is not here. If you come for whores, there are none. My sister run them off. We have beds, though. More are featherbeds, but some are straw."

"And all have fleas, I don't doubt," said Ethan Hunt.

"Why are here anyway?" Willow asked. "You don't look like you are here to stay."

"Do you question all your guests this way?" Edgar Dustin asked. 

"We don't have so many guests. Not like before the war. It's mostly sparrows on the roads these days, or worse."

"Worse?" Asher asked.

"Thieves," said a boy from the stables. "Robbers."

"All these children," Asher said to the girl Willow. "Are they your . . . sisters? Brothers? Kin and cousins?"

"No." Willow was staring at her, in a way that he knew well. She doesn't trust me and I cannot fault her. Even I wouldn't trust a man at the head of an army if I were in her place. Willow continued. "They're just . . . I don't know . . . the sparrows bring them here, sometimes. Others find their own way. You still have not answered what you want?" the girl Willow asked again. 

"We don't need much from you, my lady," Asher said. "In the name of King Andrew Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North, I, Asher Forrester, High Commander of the Company of the Rose, take command of the crossroads."

At that a lithe and brown haired girl appeared through the door behind Willow. Jeyne Heddle was a pretty girl, not much older than thirteen with a shy but lively smile. "I beg you, my Lord," she said, "please take your business elsewhere. There is nothing for you her but little children."

"We mean no harm for you, my lady," Asher promised. "We are in need of a dry bed and a warm fire. All we require is a roof on top of our heads and a little food to sate our hunger."

"But, my Lord, we don't have rooms to house all of you here," said Jeyne. 

"My men will settle themselves in the camp around your inn," Asher informed her. "Just provide what you can for us."

More children appeared as if by magic; ragged boys with unshorn locks crept from under the porch, and furtive girls appeared in the windows overlooking the yard. Some clutched crossbows, wound and loaded.

"Gods, we ought to stay back, Asher," Owen laughed.

"Wat, you help them with those horses," said Willow. "Will, put down that rock, they've not come to hurt us. Tansy, Pate, run get some wood to feed the fire. Jon Penny, you help the man with those carts. I'll show them to some rooms."

Boys emerged hesitantly from the stables to see to their horses. Asher dismounted and gave up his horse to one of them. He ruffled the thick mop of the boy's hair with a smile as the boy took grip on the reins.

In the end they took ten rooms for the high officers of his company, each boasting a featherbed, a chamber pot, and a window. Asher's room had a hearth as well. A little boy brought in some wood to keep it burning. 

When he came down for supper the common room was crawling with children. Asher tried to count them, but they would not stand still even for an instant, so he counted some of them twice or thrice and others not at all, until he finally gave it up. He went outside to look at the status of his army. 

Outside his camp spread over leagues. The common men camped out in the open, but the lieutenants had thrown up tents, and some of the officers had erected pavilions as large as houses. Asher saw that the violet roses hanging from pikes and staffs all around the camp. Thin fingers of smoke rose from hundreds of cookfires, mailed men sat under trees and honed their blades.

Soon the common room of the inn was changed into their war council as the other officers arrived. They had pushed the tables together in three long rows, and men and boys alike were wrestling benches from the back. The older of the boys in the inn were no more than ten or twelve. It was Willow shouting all the orders to them, as if she were a queen in her castle and the other children were no more than servants. If she were highborn, command would come naturally to her, and deference to them.

Outside, the last light of day was fading. Inside, Willow had four greasy tallow candles lit and told the girls to keep the hearthfire burning high and hot. The boys helped his men with building the barricade and bringing in their supplies of salt cod, mutton, vegetables, nuts, and wheels of cheese, whilst Jeyne repaired to the kitchens to take charge of the porridge. 

"My lord," Finnick said, entering the common room. "The barricade you'd asked has been erected."

Asher took his seat in a chair, and gave a long at him. "Get Flint's archers occupy the towers in the land around the inn and ask them to keep watch."

"Will do," Finnick said. 

"Has Bill Dustin arrived with the foot yet," Asher asked Barton. 

"No," Barton said. "Our riders say that he'll be here soon."

"How is the war going?"

Finnick answered. "The men of Riverrun say, Ser Edmure had scattered small troops of men along his borders to stop our raiding, and Ser Garlan and his Reachmen are routing most of them individually before they could regroup."

"Our maester has heard that Ser Garlan has smashed the Lords Vance and Piper at Tumbler's Falls," Barton said. "Lord Hoster has massed his Riverlords under the walls of Riverrun. Our scouts say that Tyrell will soon come to meet the lords of the Trident under the walls of Riverrun. 

"What of His Grace?" Asher asked. 

"We haven't heard anything from his grace, yet," Barton admitted. "He will be on his way to Riverrun already."

"If the Arryns come forth to join us, we could ride for their aid in no time," Asher said. "Keep a close watch to the south. I don't want to be surprised by any army. " 

"We are camped in a strong spot," Rayna Longbraid said. "With the advantage of encircling any opposition against the river we are safe here."

"Doesn't matter," Asher told her. "It never hurts to be too careful."

So when it was done, Asher went back to his room. He had spent too much time on horseback that he had been wishing that featherbed for days. Sleep came easier than anything. 

He was deep in sleep but a terrible sound woke him at once. Asher sat up on his pallet with her heart thumping.

Before he could go back to sleep again, the sound came shuddering through the night—only it was clear in his ear this time, it was Kent blowing his hunting horn from the south barricade, sounding danger. In a heartbeat, all of them in the inn were pulling on clothes and snatching for whatever weapons they owned. Asher pulled on his doublet and ran for the gate as the horn sounded again, sword in hand. As he dashed past the front door of the inn, his men were already rushing towards the barricade from where the alarm came. Asher stopped and looked back. Jeyne Heddle and her sister Willow were holding a group of whimpering children together "Go and hide inside," he told them quickly and plunged on. By then he could hear horses and shouts away from the camp.

He scrambled up through the camps. The men were all around him now, shouting and cursing. Asher had to wedge through the mass of his men. He shouted for them to quiet. "Get into your ranks," he shouted loud enough to be heard over the ruckus. "Get ready for battle." 

When the order was somewhat restored in the camp he wedged on his toes to see over the gathered men. For a moment he thought the kingsroad was full of lantern bugs. Then he realized they were men with torches, galloping between the trees and hills. He saw an oak go up, flames licking at the belly of the night with hot orange tongues as the branches caught fire. Another followed, and then another, and soon there were fires blazing everywhere.

Edgar pushed his way up to him, wearing his helm. "How many?"

Asher tried to count, but they were riding too fast, torches spinning through the air as they flung them. "Hundreds," he said. "Thousands, I don't know. It is no mere foragers." Over the roar of the flames, he could hear shouts. "They'll come for us soon."

"There," Edgar said, pointing.

A wooden cart covered in flames moved between the burning tents toward the holdfast. More followed the first one quickly, breaking the lines of his rallied men. Out in the distance, across the wooden barricade, two long columns of armoured men rode towards them. Firelight glittered off metal helms and spattered their mail and plate with orange and yellow highlights. One carried a banner on a tall lance. He thought it was black and red, but it was hard to tell in the night, with the fires roaring all around. Everything seemed red or black or orange.

The fire leapt from one tree to another. Asher saw a tree consumed, the flames creeping across its branches until it stood against the night in robes of living orange. Everyone was awake now, manning the barricades or struggling with the frightened animals below. He could hear Bill Dustin shouting commands. 

If the riders gets through to their disordered camp it would certainly be a bloody massacre. "Get the barricade up," Asher shouted. "Block the road."

His men were quick to respond. The barricade was heaved up forcing the oncoming riders rein up before the sharpened stakes in fear of impaling themselves through the stakes. Though some were not so lucky as their counterparts as they were too close and fast to stop their mounts in time. The impact of the quick stop by the riders on the front was met wholly by the men in the rear as they smashed against the riders on the front out of control. 

"Barton!" Edgar shouted to his friend beside him. "Gather the remaining archers and take position at the top of the inn. Pick out their men one by one." 

Asher moved for the barricade to the south. "To the gate with me!" he shouted. "To the King."

"To the king!" His men picked up his cry and followed him. "To the king!"

"Asher," Edgar called. "We need to gather the cavalry else they will ride us down."

"Go to my uncle," Asher told him. "Rally as much men as you can. Then encircle the inn by the hills to the east and break them in their flank. Owen and Hunt go with him. Denys and Roger with me."

When Edgar left with Owen and Ethan Hunt, Asher led his ordered men to the weakened barricade to the south. Chaos had ensued by the barricade when they arrived there. Already there were men getting over the barricade to fight with his own. Kill Bill was cleaving anyone who dared get in range with his battleaxe. He could see that more men were coming over the stakes and some were even engaged in pulling them off. Asher rushed to his men's aid. 

All around them, the land burned. The night air was full of smoke, and the drifting red embers outnumbered the stars. Asher scowled. "Don't let them get past this barricade. Hold it. Hold it in the king's name."

The knight at the head of the mounted riders raised a lanquid fist, and spears and arrows came hurtling from the fire-bright shadows behind. A spear hit a man who was right beside him, and Asher wondered if he had been the target. The spearhead went in his throat and exploded out the back of his neck, dark and wet. The man grabbed at the shaft, and fell boneless on the ground.

More spears and arrows flew. Asher yanked down Denys and Roger and stayed in the ground until it was clear. From across the stakes came the rattle of armor, the scrape of swords on scabbards, the banging of spears on shields, mingled with curses and the hoofbeats of racing horses. A torch sailed spinning above their heads, trailing fingers of fire as it thumped down in the dirt of the yard.

"Blades!" Asher shouted. "Spread apart, defend the barricade wherever they hit. Gerren, Finnick, hold the west end by the river. Gildon, hold the east."

Asher raised his sword and pushed for the center. 

He hacked the arm of a man as his hand grasped the top of the stakes trying to vault over it. He saw it by the light of the burning trees, so clear that it was easy to find men at the other end of his sword. 

He slashed down hard on the man who came for him from his left, and the castle-forged steel bit into the gap in his armor where his neck met with the shoulder. Blood spurted, and the man sank down, and another took his place. He too vanished as suddenly as he had appeared. "Behind!" Roger yelled from his right. Asher whirled. A bearded and helmetless man raised his sword to spilt Asher into two. As he came into range, he stepped aside from the steel and drove the point of his sword at his chest into his heart. 

The enemy army was well led and numerous, the sharpened stakes were being pushed off the ground. It's only quite some time now before it falls entirely and there seemed to be no end to the foes. For each one Asher cut down or stabbed or maimed, another was coming over the stakes right for him. Denys was fighting a knight in the spiked helm with silk plumes, and Roger was shoving the point of his dirk through the visor of another knight he had dismounted. Every time Asher looked up, more torches were flying, trailing long tongues of flame that lingered behind his eyes. He saw a red dragon on a black banner and thought of Rhaegar, wondering if he was here thinking that Andrew would be here. When four men assaulted him with axes, Asher danced around them until he killed two and the other two were lost in the mass of men. To the west Finnick wrestled a man into the river, and Gerren was drowning a knight in armor. Rayna Longbraid's axes were finding men all around her until a knight with yellow skulls and red lips painted upon his shield opened her face in two with his sword. Everything smelled of blood and smoke and iron and piss, but after a time it seemed like that was only one smell. 

He never saw how the barricade was destroyed, but it was pulled off, lying on the ground as no more than mere sticks. "Back to the inn!" Asher screamed "Pull back." 

When he led his men back to the inn, busy fighting the pursuing foes, Asher looked past them, and saw steel shadows rushing through the burning trees, firelight shining off mail and blades, and he knew that Edgar had rallied his cavalry. He didn't hope for much, thinking a little bit of time would be enough to rally his men again to hold the last stand against these knights of Rhaegar Targaryen. The night rang to the clash of steel and the cries of the wounded and dying.

He saw Edgar's charge did nothing but to harass the long column of steel. But it did give him enough time to gather his men into a dense ring with every man's back guarded by the other. When Edgar's horsemen were chased off into the trees from where they had come, he knew it was done. 

It was his doing, Asher knew. To bring all these men to their deaths, it was his doing. He had wanted it more than anything and in the end he has gotten his wish- to die fighting for his friend. 

The stable was on fire, he saw. Flames were licking up its sides from where a torch had fallen on straw, and he could hear the screaming of the animals trapped within. He could only wish that Jeyne and her orphans were safe and will be safe for a long time as the war would not end with this battle. 

As he looked forth he saw the eastern sky grow pale. The air was swirling with smoke, the back wall of the stables was a sheet of fire ground to roof. The horses and donkeys were kicking and rearing and screaming. The poor animals, Asher thought.

The long column of riders moved between the burning tents toward the Crossroads Inn. The riders reined up in front of the inn before them.

"Who's got your command?" Asher asked.

"I do." The reflections of burning stable glimmered dully on the armor of his warhorse as the others parted to let him pass. He was a tall man with a red salmon on his shield, and ornate scrollwork crawling across his red steel breastplate. His greathelm was adorned with a leaping fish crest. When he took it off, a face bold and strong eyed his ragged party. "Ser Myles Mooton, brother of Lord William Mooton of Maidenpool, Commander of the royal forces of King Rhaegar Targaryen." He had a high voice, fit for a commander. "In his name, I command you to lay your arms down and surrender."

"Can't do," Asher told him. "I follow a different king."

"There is but one king in this realm," Ser Myles said. "Drop your weapons and show us you are no traitors."

"Traitors, my arse," Bill Dustin said and rushed for Myles Mooton, limping slightly. 

Mooton waved his men off when they moved to interfere. He blocked Kill Bill's savage slash to his head with his sword and smashed the fish crested greathelm against Bill's head, knocking him down. 

"I wish for no more unnecessary bloodshed," Ser Myles said more to them than to Bill Dustin. "The day is ours. Yield."

Asher eyed him coolly. "Told you, can't do."

The knight with the skulls and lips shield who killed Longbraid rode his horse forward. ""Surrender, in the name of the king!" he said. "Or die."

"Are you deaf, man," Asher told him. "Did you not hear a single I spoke right now."

"I command you once more, in King Rhaegar's name, surrender and spare us of this unnecessary massacre," said Ser Myles.

For a long moment Asher considered. Then he spat. "Don't think I will."

"So be it. You defy the king's command, and so proclaim yourselves rebels."

"Do your worst," Asher shouted back.

Ser Myles wore his helm and mounted his horse. "Kill any man who holds a weapon and spare anyone who yields," he told his men. "I thought to-"

A sudden and terrible sound interrupted him. From the ridge to the east, the sound of the warhorn rang out. The Targaryen men, preparing to charge at them, stopped at that sound to look for the news in the dawn.

All that heard that sound trembled. Back from the ridges in the east the echoes came, blast upon blast, as if on every cliff and hill a mighty herald stood. But on the yard his men looked up, listening with wonder; for the echoes did not die. Ever the horn-blasts wound on among the hills; nearer now and louder they answered one to another, blowing fierce and free.

There suddenly upon a ridge appeared a rider, clad in pale white armor, shining in the rising sun. Over the low hills the horns were sounding. Behind him, hastening down the long slopes, were a thousand men on armored mounts; their swords and spears were in their hands. Amid them rode a man tall and strong. His armor was the blue of skies. As he came to the high road's brink, he set to his lips a great black horn and blew a ringing blast.

"For Arryn!" the Riders shouted. "For the Vale!"

"Lord Jon!" said Asher. "Lord Arryn's come to save us!"

"Come in time," said Roger beside him. 'This is wizardry!"

"The falcon! The falcon!" the Riders shouted. 'The falcon has arisen and comes back to war. For the Eyrie!'

And with that shout Lord Jon Arryn came. His horse was white as snow, white was his shield, and his sword was adorned with a dozen gems. At his right hand was the knight in pale blue armor, his heir, and in his left was a big man armored in brown, behind him rode the Knights of the Vale. The blue banners of House Arryn fluttered everywhere. Light sprang in the sky. Night departed.

'For Arryn!' With a cry and a great noise they charged. Down from the high road they roared, along the slopes they swept, and they drove through the royal host of Rhaegar Targaryen as a wind among grass. Behind them from the south came the stern cries of men issuing from the woods, driving for the enemy. Edgar and his riders. The Targaryen men that were left in the crossroads scattered all around. And the sound of blowing horns echoed in the hills.

On they rode, Lord Jon and his mighty knights. Captains and champions fell or fled before them. No man withstood them, not even the brave Ser Myles or the Knight of Skulls and Kisses. Their backs were to the swords and spears of the Knights of Vale and their faces to the river or the trees. Asher laughed in joy as great wonder had come upon them with the rising of the day.

So Lord Jon rode from his high road and clove his path to the crossroads. There the company halted. Light grew bright about them. Shafts of the sun flared above the eastern hills and glimmered on their spears and swords. 

Darkness was under them. Between the woods and the Trident now scattered the proud host of Rhaegar, in terror of the Lord Jon Arryn and his knights. They streamed down from the kingsroad until all above the destroyed barricade was empty of them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Knights of the Vale come to the rescue in their trademark last moment saving the day manner. I hope you guys like it. Leave a comment and let me know what you think. I would love to hear your thoughts. As always thanks for reading my story. Have a nice day and stay safe.


	7. Chapter 7

**_Myles_ **

  
Weary, Myles set his mount on forward. Weary of the battle, weary of the defeat. I can't go on like this, I can't. But his hands and feet spurred his horse on. Little by little the remainder of his once great host was moving south to join Prince Aegon's host at Stoney Sept. They were all tired he could see, but that didn't stop them from moving. There's no other choice for them. It's either this or be left behind for anyone who might be pursuing them.

When he looked behind he could see no one behind him. The air was heavy and the sky cloudy and grey. Rain was pouring down on them heavily, so unlike the perfect clear day when he had crept upon the Stark army at the Crossroads. He looked down as he remembered the day and the battle. 

It would not stop, the rain. The downpour has been continuous from last night, so much so that his boots were covered in mud. His horse was well lathered, riding hard to get away from the knights of the Vale. His men were dragging behind him. The disarrayed army which followed behind him looked like some migrating commonfolk in search for safety.

Every fourth or fifth foot Myles would turn back in his saddle, reaching down and tugging up his swordbelt and watch intently for any army that could come chasing after them. At least he had not lost the sword on the fight, giving a chance to fight still. 

Richard was riding close beside him. Their men were all stumbling around them, swords and spears in hand, ready to fend off anyone. They rarely stopped to rest, gathering beside rocks and roots of trees to spend the night. Most of his men had survived, a good part of it, only because they had broke and ran before the chivalry of the Vale.

Tired, Myles led his men forth as quick as he could. They were good and safe linking up with Prince Aegon's and his dragon. Pursuing the Stark or Arryn army from the Crossroads was a bad notion, especially with the men he now had with him. Richard had agreed as much. Let the Arrys hold the Trident for now, it would turn around for them when they come back with a dragon.

The journey to Stoney Sept felt longer than the one they had done while marching North for the Crossroads. The rain made it even worse, making the roads muddy and slippery and soaking everything that they had, clothes and food and fire.

He had made it clear for his men that anyone who straggled behind will be left behind. He could not risk to lose the rest of his men in order to get a good night's sleep. All his men knew that, the thousands who were left. They had been no less than a good eight thousand when they fled the Crossroads, maybe more, but some had wandered off in the night, a few wounded had bled to death and others straggled behind unable to keep up with the army. Often, Myles put his wounded men on horse back unwilling to leave the men who'd fought for him in the hands of fate, more like in the hands of wolves and crows. He took garrons from the healthy men and gave them to the wounded, organized the walkers, and set the mounted knights to guard their flanks and rear. He would have marched hard if his horses and men were stronger. They could be behind us. Nothing encourages an army better than the sight of a foe running broken before them.

His clothes under the fine armor was soaked riding through the rain. The rain had managed to drench the hose, the thick quilted coat that padded him against the cold steel of his armor, the fine surcoat with the red salmon of House Mooton upon the chest and even the layers of smallclothes beneath. His cloak did little to keep the cold away as it too was soaked in the rain, the triple-layered cloak with a salmon pin made of ruby that fastened tight under his chins. Its hood flopped forward over his forehead. The blood which had covered his armor and wool-and-leather gloves had been completely washed off by the rain.

The rain dropped down around him. Sometimes it fell as a soft drizzle from a clear white sky, and sometimes from a black, but that was all that remained of day and night. His shoulders were in agony from the weight of the armor and tiredness. He ought to take it off, but the thought of any oncoming men made him think twice of it. He ought to be careful and cautious at least until he reached his allies. Bold and comfort would not serve any of them now.

If only the Arryns were late for a day or two he might have held the Trident for King Rhaegar now. . . except it wasn't, though, and it was no good wishing. Lord Jon had come, swift and strong, and in mighty numbers. It seemed as if the entire chivalry of the Vale was with him. He still remembered the way their banners had fluttered in the light of the Dawn. There was the bronze banner which displayed the black iron studs bordered with the runes of the First Men of House Royce, the six silver bells of Belmore, the broken black wheel, on a green field of House Waynwood, the five silver arrows of House Hunter fanned on a brown field, the red castle of the Redforts, the three black ravens of House Corbray, all three in flight, holding three red hearts, on a white field, the nine black stars of Templeton on a gold saltire, on a black field, the cresting sea-green wave of House Upcliff, on a black field, even the yellow tower of House Grafton, burning, on a black pile, on a flame-red field who had once fought for the Targaryens when Lord Arryn refused to obey King Aerys' orders to kill his wards, instead choosing to defend them and rose in rebellion against the king. And there were dozen other banners known to him with them. For every banner he knew there were half a dozen of which he never knew. His army was so focused on the surrounded Starks that they were never ready to meet the great charge of the Knights of the Vale. It would've been a bloody massacre had he not retreated.

The hooves of his horse made a sucking sound as they passed through the mud. The print of it's leg left back on the mud where the horse set his feet. Off to the left and right, his men were spread through the glade of trees, swords and spears in hand, trying to shield them from the rainfall. When he turned his head he could see them, slipping silent through the wood, cursing the rains. He had positioned his men into a ringed mass of spears, with the strong, able ones forming the outside while the wounded and the swordsmen were positioned inside the strong, steel ring. The knights on their horses accompanied him in groups positioned on the front, rear and flanks, ready to fend off anyone who might come for them in any direction.

Yesterday Myles had sent a good company of outriders on swift and strong horses to Prince Aegon telling him of the course of their journey. They were only a few days' ride away from Stoney Sept but looking at their slow pace it wouldn't surprise him if it takes a whole week for them to reach there. He intended to take their rest this night and then continue on their march, full-bellied, the next day.

He had thought to return to Maidenpool after the retreat, to gather their strength there and then once well rested they could march forth to Riverrun to meet the rebels there. When word from Prince Aegon's host nearing Stoney Sept by way of the Goldroad the plans had changed into linking up with his army at Stoney Sept.

It was a sound plan, holding up at Stoney Sept. The position gave them a central land to move against any army which would try to go for King's Landing. Though Myles doubted that would happen anytime soon. Ser Garlan Tyrell was bleeding the Riverlands as much as he could and both the Born King and Lord Jon Arryn would be busy trying to help Riverrun before they might move for King's Landing. Lord Robert and his Stormlords were blocked in the Stormlands with Lord Randyll Tarly and Princess Daenerys to their front. He cannot see a way where an army might make for King's Landing amongst all this. 

Unless Lord Tywin makes a move. So far the Lion of Casterly Rock has not yet declared for anyone, not to the rebels or the crown. He hoped that it ought to be the case for the rest of the war or better if he answered his grace's call for help against these rebels.

If not, then he could not say which was the worst, either the fact that they would have another whole kingdom for them to deal with or the fact that it meant more battles and more deaths. Already there's been thousands died in this war, barely begun yet bloody. Thousands had died on the Crossroads, men from his side and the other alike. They had died all around him, and certainly more must have died after. He'd seen some of them dying in his remaining party. They had no choice but to leave them behind. He stared upward at the pale white sky as raindrops drifted down upon his face and his chest and his head. Should I find the same fate as any of them, I'll do so gladly and if they speak of me they'll have to say I died a loyal man to my king and I did my duty. There is naught a better death than that for a knight.

Now though, his thoughts were more on his men than some glorious death. They had all been his responsibility. He had failed them in the Crossroads but he had no notion to do so again any time soon. He had wanted to go and fight for his friend and king more than anything. Go and fight, he did and cost the lives of thousands. He could still remember the men he'd killed that day. All of that had led to nothing. The Crossroads was lost.

They had come very close to capturing it in the King's name. When word of the northern army in the Crossroads were brought to him by his scouts, Myles had thought to take it before the Arrys could arrive. That would have given them a huge strategic advantage in keeping the rebel armies away from one another while Prince Aegon put an end to the legend of the Born King.

They'd rode hard and fast up the Kingsroad and waited for the night to launch their attack upon the northmen when they'd least expected it. The camp was well arranged that there were archers up in high towers to alert their camp. Myles was forced to stay away and wait until night fell upon to cover them in the cloak of darkness. When dusk finally arrived, the archer towers were the first ones to fall neutralizing any hope of alarms for the northmen. He'd given the command to Richard to take down the sentries and archers and his friend had done that flawlessly. With the element of surprise they had overwhelmed the resting camp in no time.

Thousands had died at the Crossroads that day, good men and true, if it wasn't for Lord Jon and his knights there would have been more as the men of the north were too stubborn to yield. He needs only to think of the old man, covered in blood and injured still came for him all the while surrounded by his army, to know that they wouldn't have yielded. The battle was almost done and the day was theirs, almost. His men were only a moment away from capturing the Crossroads in Rhaegar's name.

When the horns blew Myles had been preparing to deliver the final blow to the northmen. He thought he was dreaming them at first, but when he looked east towards the Highroad he saw them. Dawn was arriving from the east and so had the Knights of the Vale. All around him his men had turned their heads off to the east watching for the sounds of worhorns. The warhorn had fallen silent by then, and the Crossroads rang with shouted commands and the clatter of steel.

For a moment he had stunned to see them there, right at the time. His men were more focused in scattering the northmen around that they were not ready to hold against a cavalry charge of armoured knights as fine as the Knights of the Vale. The rising sun was against their eyes almost making them blind with all the shimmering steel armours before them. His command had come late but not too late, ordering his pikemen to get back in lines and make a shield wall first to defend against the cavalry charge. But once he saw the scattered northern riders rallying in the rear he knew that the battle was good as lost.

There was nothing to do there but retreat, else his men would've been butchered in cold blood. Their time was done there, and so they were forced to retreat. It had taken a good deal of time for his scattered men to regroup together. Most of them joined them all along the way but some were entirely lost to the lands.

"Feeling sleepy," a voice asked from beside.

"No, I'm not asleep," Myles told Richard. "I was just remembering."

"You shouldn't take it hard on yourself, Myles," his friend said. "If you want we can rest for some time."

"We cannot risk it," Myles looked at him. Richard rode beside him, his armour and clothes wet with rain. "There's no resting in the middle of nowhere."

"Night is falling, Myles," Richard said and looked over to the west sky. "The men are tired. Even you look like you could get some rest."

"I'm alright, Richard." Myles tugged his cloak close to him. He looked around and saw that night was finally setting about and they were out in the open. That wouldn't do. He must find a good place before setting camp. "We'll call it in for the night when we find a good spot."

The night before they had left for the battle, Myles and Richard had spent a good time like the old times, Myles remembered smiling. For a moment they were not the commanders of the Royal forces of King Rhaegar but just a couple of squires who dreamed of knighthood and glory. They had always been the closest of friends, winning their knighthood from Rhaegar together when their time came. For a moment he missed those good old days and found himself wanting them back.

"My lords," Watt interrupted them. "We have found a flat ground by the woods around God's Eye to make camp." Myles had sent the tall man with a company to find a perfect place for them to make camp.

"Very well then," Myles said to Watt. "Get the men ready to set up camp."

"At once, my lord," Watt replied.

The man moved on, towards the men shouting commands. Richard looked at the wound at his upper arm. "That's seems a serious injury," he said touching the cloth covered wound. "You should get it cleaned and dressed, Myles."

Myles nodded. "Do you think Prince Aegon is already at Stoney Sept?"

Richard shrugged in his saddle. "If it's just the prince and his dragon, he would've been there in no time, but with a huge host behind him, I don't think they would reach there before us."

"Did you get any ravens from King's Landing," he heard Richard ask.

"No," Myles admitted. "Though I think there will be one."

Richard nodded as he trotted his horse forward slowly. "Rhaegar will not like it," he said. "Not even a single bit."

"I know," Myles said. "What are we supposed to do? The Arryns were too much for us to deal with not to mention the northmen."

"He will not be ready to hear our reasoning, Myles," Richard said.

"Probably," said Myles. "He is a changed man, not the one we knew."

"Those bits of prophecies and parchments pushed him to the path of the red priest too much for my liking," his friend said.

"Mmm," Myles admitted. "Did Ned's son really write a letter to Rhaegar?"

"Aye," Richard chuckled. "You should have read it. Rhaegar has ordered for the letter to be sewn into a banner and hung it behind his throne. He has vowed to bring it down only when Stark is felled. The boy has got some balls, I'll grant him that."

"I heard of it in Maidenpool," Myles said. "I could scarcely believe it. The smallfolk claimed that Rhaegar pissed himself reading the letter alone."

"That's just a fishwife's tale," Richard said. "But Stark was bold with his words claiming the king to be a criminal and to deal with him as such."

"He did what?" Myles asked, shocked.

"You heard me," his friend said. "He did say that Rhaegar was a criminal."

"I never knew he was that bold," Myles said.

"Well, he is Arthur's nephew after all."

"That he is." They arrived to the flat ground where his men were already working hard to put up the tents and set up the camp for their garrison.

It was a fine place, well set and surrounded by trees which would give them enough cover to defend it from foragers and foes alike. To one side the God's Eye provided a natural barrier and the woods around them made a ringwall giving them a best spot to defend.

So when the camps were finally set, Myles went inside his tent to sleep with the night still fairly young. He had been awake for too long and tired beyond anything. Sleep came easily and the night passed in peace.

The next morning they wasted no time. They rode in the predawn chill with the rain drizzling around them. Yet even as they were riding forth in the rain, Myles was being careful about the way they passed.

They set out through the rain at a hard gallop. Only when they were safely away from the sight of God's Eye, he slowed them to a trot. It was a miserable slow journey after that with the muddy ground making it hard for the horses and men alike to rush past it. The rain still soaked through his clothes and made it cling to his body.

The rain had finally stopped by next morning as dawn light was seeping through from the eastern sky. And once again Myles set his men for hard riding. They stopped only as long as it took to feed and water the horses, and then they were off again. This time he was spared to look behind his back continuously wary of any pursuit. After the third night he no longer rushed his men and mostly continued in a stable pace as they were nearing the town of Stoney Sept.

The morning they reached Stoney Sept, they were clustered around a stream a short ways down the hills encircling the town. The horses had drunk their fill of the cold water, and were grazing on fresh blades of green grass that grew around the stream. Set Boros Blount and a guardsmam wearing House Blount's colours huddled close, talking to Richard. Watt stood with Richard, leaning on his spear with the Targaryen banner swaying from the tip. Nearby, Ser Elwood Harte sat oiling his longsword, running the whetstone by the edges at times to sharpen it.

Stoney Sept was the biggest town in the riverlands and it too was touched by this war. More recent battles had been fought here as well, Myles thought from the look of the place. The town gates were made of raw new wood; outside the walls a pile of charred planks remained to tell what had happened to the old ones.

The town was closed up tight. Myles could see the captain of the gate eying them warily. "Open the doors in the King's name," He shouted to him.

"You'll find nothing but peaceful folk living here, my lords," he said from the gatehouse. "We are hiding no army here."

"That is for us to see, old man," Richard said. "If you're hiding no one there, you'd have no trouble in opening the gates and letting us in."

"I've told you, there's no one here." The captain did not wait for an answer. "Let the folk live in peace. They don't need your war."

"Same as we don't want to trouble them in any way," said Myles. "I am Ser Myles Mooton, brother of Lord William of Maidenpool. All we need from you is safe beds for some nights. We will give you no trouble. You have my word for it."

The captain eyed them for a long moment and then disappeared. A few heartbeats later the gates of Stoney Sept opened before them.

Myles rode between Richard and Watt as his men moved down the streets in their horses and with their steels sheathed. He could see the sept on its hill, from which the town took it's name, and below it a stout strong holdfast of grey stone that looked much too small for such a big town. But almost all houses seemed deserted, and he saw no people. "Are all the townfolk dead?" He asked the captain.

"Only shy." Richard pointed out two bowmen on a roof, and some boys with sooty faces crouched in the rubble of an alehouse. Farther on, a baker threw open a shuttered window and shouted down to the captain. The sound of his voice brought more people out of hiding, and Stoney Sept slowly seemed to come to life around them.

In the market square at the town's heart stood a fountain in the shape of a leaping trout, spouting water into a shallow pool. Women were filling pails and flagons there. The only sound in the market square was the splash of falling water and the buzzing of flies.

On the east side of the market square stood a modest inn with whitewashed walls and broken windows. Half its roof had burnt off recently, but the hole had been patched over. Above the door hung a wooden shingle painted as a peach, with a big bite taken out of it. They dismounted at the stables sitting catty-corner, and the captain bellowed for grooms.

When the horses were tended and taken care of, the captain took them to the holdfast by the sept. There Myles, Richard and the others took residence for the time being till Prince Aegon arrived with his might host.

They still had their supply lines left so when they dined Myles called for the townfolk to join them. These are the people of his own land, he could not just let them starve. "How well are you fixed for food?" Myles asked the captain as they ate together.

"Not so bad as we were. Our Huntsman brought in a flock o' sheep, and there's been some grains left in our stores. The harvest wasn't burned south o' the river. Course, there's plenty want to take what we got. Reachmen one day, westermen the next."

"Westermen?" Myles frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Pretty much. Seemed like westermen along with a group of sellswords. They come off to fight the reachmen when they are here and run away once they are chased off."

"Did you see any banners-" Myles was asking as a blow of a warhorn broke him off. Not again, he thought as he reached for his sword.

"Riders!"

The shriek came from outside the common room of the holdfast. One of his men at the gates rushed through the doors inside to inform them of the riders.

In a quick second, everyone of his men in the room were reaching for swords and spears and armours and chainmail. Myles Mooton was the first to be done. "Ring the bells of the town," he shouted. "Tell the townfolk to bar their doors and not come out until the bells are quieted."

He sprang to his feet and rushed outside. Richard joined him on the way and so did the others.

"I hear them!" Richard called out. Myles turned his head to listen, and there it was: hoofbeats, a legion of horses, coming nearer. Suddenly everyone was moving, reaching for weapons, running to their mounts.

Ser Balman Byrch at the gate came springing back to them. He stopped breathless in front of Myles and the others. "An army of men, my lord," he said, breathless. "Hundreds of horses and as much as men."

"Did they bear any banners?"

"They do, my lord," he said. "But it's hard to say with the distance. All looks red."

Red, no it can't be. At least it isn't the Arryns. "Richard get the cavalry around here," he told his friend. "We face them in this street. Get the archers on the roofs of buildings either side. Men at arms hold the buildings and use them for your advantage. Watt take the foot with you. Riders with me." Myles unsheathed his longsword and raised it in his hand. Around them his men were all climbing over the buildings to get on high vantage points. They are well staying up there as the narrow streets of the town were filling in with his mounted riders.

The hoofbeats were louder now. He could hear the battering ram pounding against the gates of Stoney Sept. All around them the bells rang, alerting the smallfolk of the upcoming battle and so they would know to lock their doors.

His mounted knights and riders formed up in ranks behind him and Richard.

The creak of the wood was so clear now, splintering and splitting. It would give out soon enough, Myles thought. A heartbeat later, the gates broke and the riders were on them.

The men came filling inside the town like a rushing torrent. He could see the red banners, bearing the golden lion of House Lannister. At their head was a huge man, the biggest man that Myles Mooton had ever seen. He need to take only one look to know that it was Lord Tywin's Mad dog who led them. The Mountain That Rides dwarfed all the knights around him. He was well over seven feet tall, closer to eight, with massive shoulders and arms thick as the trunks of small trees. His destrier seemed a pony in between his armored legs, and the great two handed sword he carried was as big as a man.

Myles could hear the twang of bowstrings as his archers let fly from both sides of the street through where the Lannister riders came. Almost all of them found their targets and had a number of rushing riders fall. But none of it stopped Gregor Clegane. The man was knighted by Rhaegar himself, he should be ashamed to take steel against him.

Despite all the men his archers felled, the Lannister riders came thundering, lean brave men in fine armor, faces hidden behind barred halfhelms. In gloved hands were clutched all manner of weapons: longswords and lances and maces and spiked morningstars. Another knight, a stout man with a manticore on his shield, and gilded scrollwork crawling across his steel breastplate led the foot men behind the mounted riders.

Myles shouted and rode to meet the Mountain, with Richard and the others beside him, screaming some wordless battle cry.

He heard the screams of frightened horses and the crash of metal on metal. Richard's sword raked across the naked face of a rider, and Myles plunged through the Lannister riders like a whirlwind, cutting down foes right and left. He could see Gregor Clegane hammering at his men, swinging his monstrous greatsword with one hand and directing his horse with the other. Myles soon came against a knight in a spiked helm on his way to the Mountain. He fought him as well, their horses dancing round each other as they traded blow for blow. When the knight lost his reins to control his horse, Myles shoved his sword through the visor of his helm. When he pulled his sword out, it was drenched with blood to the hilt and the lifeless body of the knight sagged off the saddle to be overrun by dozen of raging hooves. He saw an arrow find a guardsman rushing for him, striking right at the throat of the man. When he opened his mouth to scream, only blood came out. By the time he fell, Myles moved to fight again someone else.

He moved off from the swing of a morningstar and turned his horse back. As the rider turned to come back at him, swinging his morningstar, Myles swung his sword while ducking down low against the neck of his garron. His blade caught the charging horse in the throat with a meaty thunk, angling upward, and Myles almost lost his grip as the animal screamed and collapsed. He managed to wrench the sword free and hold his seat in the saddle. The other rider was less fortunate. Horse and rider crashed to the ground in a tangle. Myles trotted back to the fallen knight and lowered his sword. "Yield," the fallen knight cried. "Mercy."

And just like that he went in search for another foe. All around him the battle was raging. Men were fighting in the streets and alleys, even on the rooftops. The septons were still ringing the bells, letting the townfolk know that the battle was not done yet. He saw Richard unhorsed, fighting the manticore knight on the roof of the Peach and kicked him roughly off the roof with a loud thud. When the manticore knight landed upon the ground, the sound could be heard even over the loud chaos of battle.

After that, things ran together. The dusk was full of shouts and screams and heavy with the scent of blood, and the world had turned to chaos. Arrows hissed past his ear and clattered off the armours and stone alike. Myles moved on to the center of the battlefield where the fighting was thick and intense, sliding his horse smoothly in between the rush of riders and darting out his sword to hew at the arms and heads of passing enemies.

More men were mounting up every moment. And others were being unhorsed. There was only one way to decide this battle. He could still see the Mountain clear in the sea of men. He looked a giant among children, fighting his men.

Soon enough Myles came against the Mountain that Rides. His longsword was no match for the monstrosity Clegane held. Each of Gregor Clegane's strikes were hammering against his sword and it sent vibrations down right to his bones. It was all he could do to not lose the grip on his sword. If he did, he was done for good. He danced around the Mountain for a while, of how long he couldn't say for sure. The Mountain had it hard to swing his enormous sword with just one hand and his control on his mount was waning as well. Myles has his sword hit Clegane more than once but Gregor was totally covered in steel that his hits meant nothing to him. He was still fighting him when a ground shaking roar split the evening air.

A shadow rippled across his face.

The tumult and the shouting died. Twelve thousand voices stilled. Every eye turned skyward. A warm wind brushed Myles' cheeks, and above the beating of his heart he heard the sound of wings. The men fighting around him dashed for shelter. Even Ser Gregor Clegane froze where he stood.

Above them all the dragon turned, dark against the sun. His scales were green, his eyes and horns and spinal plates polished bronze. Upon its back sat Prince Aegon steering his dragon. The green dragon flapped his wings once as he swept back above the sands, and the sound was like a clap of thunder. The men raised their heads, watching in terror and wonder alike... and flame engulfed them, green fire shot with bronze. Myles felt the wash of heat thirty feet away. The dying scream of men sounded so harsh in his ears. He must have burned some of my men as well, Myles thought bitterly.

Everywhere men sought to get away from the dragon and not all of them did. The green dragon was as deadly with its teeth and claws as it was with its fire. It was quick on the ground as well, making short work of anyone who had hopes of escaping out the gates of the town.

Soon the dragonfire started to burn the buildings of the town as well. Hundreds of the Mountains riders died in a single stroke and Ser Gregor Clegane ran, broke before Aegon Targaryen and his green dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Lannisters have made a statement in this chapter. And so do the dragons. I hope you guys like this chapter. As always leave a comment and let me know what you guys think. I'd love to hear your thoughts. Thanks for reading my story and have a nice day.


	8. Chapter 8

_**R** _ _**haegar** _

  
A thousand ships!" The messenger's rat brown hair was tousled and unwashed, and the torchlight showed his fine face flush and ragged and windburnt. "Most of the men are lost and so are the ships. Those who survived were taken prisoners by Ser Baelor."

"My son," asked Mace Tyrell. "Loras. Is he alright?"

"Ser Loras fought valiantly, my Lord," the messenger said, "but he was captured by the overwhelming Hightower knights."

"Your Grace, this must be answered fiercely!" Tyrell's words rang off the rafters and echoed through the cavernous throne room.

Seated on his Iron Throne, Rhaegar could feel a growing tightness in her neck. How many betrayals and backstabbing should I have to face in my life, he wondered. He should never have trusted Lord Leyton. The Others take him and his family. Little did kinship help him here at Oldtown. The Knight of the Flowers captured and Ser Jorah Mormont possibly dead, Leyton Hightower has damned any kinship he had with them in favour of his northern grandson.

"All our ships?" Jon looked at the messenger doubtfully. "That couldn't be. No lord commands such a great fleet to destroy our great Royal Navy. Certainly we outnumbered the Hightower ships ten to one. Our ships wouldn't have found it hard to capture Oldtown should the need arise."

"Mayhaps the northern fleet has made it's way south," said Petyr Baelish, stroking his pointed beard, calculating, the king could see through that. "That, or we've got ourselves a false messenger."

The torches on the back wall threw the long, barbed shadow of the Iron Throne halfway to the doors. The far end of the hall was lost in darkness, and Rhaegar could not but feel that the shadows were closing around him too. My enemies are everywhere, and my friends are useless. He had only to glance at her councillors to know that; only his hand and Aurane Waters seemed awake. The others had been roused from bed by servants and guards alike pounding on their doors, and stood there rumpled and confused. Outside the night was black and still. The castle and the city slept. Not the kingsguard, though. Not the White Bull or Ser Oswell Whent who stood at the foot of his throne, two pale shadow with a longswords on their hips. Bezzaro was away when he had needed him the most. He wondered if the red priest had seen all this in his flames.

"Even with the northern fleet free, it isn't enough," Waters pointed out Baelish. "It lacks the strength to match our Royal fleet. Combined with the might of the Arbor at sea, no one could have opposed us."

"What of the Greyjoys?" asked the Master of Ships. "The Ironborn are a force to be reckoned with at sea. They also have larger ships as well. Lord Balon's Great Kraken and the warships of the Iron Fleet were made for battle, not for raids. They are the equal of our lesser war galleys in speed and strength, and most are better crewed and captained. The ironmen live their whole lives at sea."

"The ironmen have not dared raid the Reach since Dagon Greyjoy sat the Seastone Chair," the king said. "It couldn't be them."

"It sorcery," The messenger whispered. He stood with his hands hidden up his sleeves, shivering. "Lord Leyton did it. The crown of the High Tower burned green and Lord Leyton wielded the waves-"

"This frightened fool has gone mad," said Mace Tyrell. "It cannot be. No one can control the seas. Surely this is some fishwife's tale."

So did the dragons of the old belong in tales until my sister and Bezzaro brought them back. If what the man says about Oldtown is true then it must be dealt with at once. Bezzaro could deal with it in no time despite what the messenger says about Leyton Hightower.

"Tales or not," said Rhaegar, "Hightower must be dealt with at once. It may have started with Oldtown but it will not stop there. Our navy first, then holdfasts, castles, large and small will fall even Highgarden might be threatened. I'll not have a war in my own domains when I have a dozen rebels all around me."

Jon nodded. "House Hightower holds great power in the reach," he said. "Lord Leyton's uncle is the High Septon as well. Should he wish though he could turn the entire kingdom against us as the Faith did to Maegor the Cruel."

"Get the High Septon under our control," Petyr Baelish said with a smile. "He is within our reach. And there is only little he could do from the depth of the black cells." The king did not like the Master of the Coin's tone or the smile which accompanied his words.

"The High Septon speaks for the Seven here on earth. Strike at him, and you are striking at the gods themselves," Rhaegar said. "The man opposed my marriage to Lyanna despite the fact that I was his king. If we dare lay a hand on him now, we'll be facing a Faith Militant uprising within our own gates."

That would doubtless be catastrophe. The Faith nearly destroyed Maegor's rule when the king had defied and insulted the gods. To have another of the kind when an open rebellion was raging across his realm, it would doubtless destroy the realm.

"Deal with Oldtown, I say," Jon said, "before Lord Leyton has the chance to even think about doing something as such."

"How would the Lord hand suggest us to accomplish that, without sufficient ships?" asked Waters. "Our fleet is done. Without cutting off Oldtown's contact with the sea any siege you propose will be of little use."

Rhaegar saw the truth of it. Without blocking off Oldtown from the sea they could any talk for siege was vain. It was the presence of a fleet which could keep Oldtown from being resupplied by sea.  
The king frowned. "Jon. Get some necessary gold and good men. On the morrow you shall leave to hire sellsails from beyond the narrow sea and gather my friends from the East. It seems as if I would need their help now more than ever."

"Your grace," Young maester Pylos said quietly, "I beg you to reconsider. It isn't wise to bring in a foreign army against our own-"

"Our own," Rhaegar stopped him sharply. "Our own? The ones who are fighting to overthrow me and mine? They are not mine. The Born King, Robert, Jon Arryn and Tully, they are nothing but traitors and rebels and I'll deal with them as such."

Pylos shrunk back into his seat as if he was slapped across the face.

"I need all the warships you can get. Carracks, wine cogs, trading galleys, and whalers it doesn't matter hire them as well. Get the grand Maesters of Essos with all their unsullied and sellswords and ferry them across Blackwater Bay as soon as you can. Let them know that they can have all the riches they want as per our deal."

"Your Grace what of Oldtown?" asked Mace Tyrell.

"Muster the men you have with you here in King's Landing," said Rhaegar. "Surely Highgarden must have known of this before us."

"It does," said the Master of Laws. "My son Willas has sent word that he is gathering men to defend our lands. Willas can raise ten thousand men within a fortnight and twice that in a moon's turn."

"Highgarden sits above the Mander," Jon reminded Tyrell. "Don't let your son rush his gathered forces straight for Oldtown. Should the Hightowers make their way into the heart of the Reach by the Mander it will leave Highgarden undefended."

"Willas sits strongly in Highgarden," Lord Tyrell replied. "He has a good host around him to defend our lands."

"Good," Rhaegar said. "Gather your forces then and march for Highgarden. Join with your son and move for Oldtown."

"Your Grace," Aurane Waters said, "without the ships a siege is useless."

Rhaegar smiled. "There will be no siege." He looked to the young maester. ""It will take half a year or more to starve Oldtown into submission, as a siege wont to do. I will sack Oldtown or burn it to ground if I have to. Pylos, send a raven to my sister in Stormlands. We have need of her dragon here. This audience is at an end. Jon, a word."

The Hand of the King stopped as he got up from his seat. Rhaegar waited for the others to walk out of the Throne room.

Dawn was still several hours away when Rhaegar and his Hand Jon Connington slipped out the king's door behind the Iron Throne. Ser Gerald and Ser Oswell flanked him, torch in hand and Jon strolled along beside him. "If it please Your Grace," Jon said, "perhaps you ought to send someone else on this journey. My place is to be with you. The Hand of the King should be with the king. Surely we could find some loyal man to carry on this duty you've bestowed upon me."

"Loyalty is very hard to find nowadays, my friend," Rhaegar told him. "The people I could trust are very few. I need you to go to the east on my behalf, Jon. I don't trust anyone else but you on this."

"I will not fail you, Your Grace."

"I have no doubt that you will, my friend," Rhaegar smiled. "This will not be the end of the House of Dragon, Jon. We are winning some battles. When you come back with our allies from the east we will win this war." That seemed to be case for him. There had been another battle in the Riverlands, a savage one. The Lannisters had come down from the West in their hundreds and Myles and Richard had sent them back running with their tails between their legs with the help of his son. The Seven had granted them a great victory at Stoney Sept that the bells were rung for days in glee for their victory.

Garlan Tyrell had his hands tightened around the riverlords, to the point where none of them even managed to hinder him. Robert and his brothers were stuck in the Stormlands and were delayed more and more by the storms and rains. The Stormlands was living up to its name. If the gods were good, the storm would keep Robert and his Stormlords well occupied. Stark was away from his allies one way or another and the Legend of the Dragonslayer might come to an end once he faces the dragons of House Targaryen in open battle.

"You're a good friend, Jon," the king said. "A loyal and trusted sword. When you return we will have a victory feast."

"You will have your ships and allies, Your Grace" Jon Connington said. "I swear that on my honor as a Connington and as your loyal friend."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The allies from the east are coming. I hope you guys like this chapter. Let me know what you think. I would love to hear your thoughts. Thanks for reading my story and have a nice day.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Garlan** _

Garlan Tyrell woke up in darkness to the blare of trumpets. His squire was already stirring up in his bed, clutching for any arms to be had.

Hastily, he sat up and threw back the blanket. The horns called through the dawn, wild and urgent, a cry that said hurry hurry hurry. He heard shouts, the clatter of spears, the whicker of horses, though nothing yet that spoke to him of fighting. "The watch guard's trumpets," he told his squire in general. "Run out, Josh. Get the Lords for battle assembly. Lord Hoster has finally found the time to fight us."

His squire looked at him with wide white eyes. After a moment though the boy ran out of the tent putting on his tunic and boots.

Groaning, Garlan lurched to his feet and pushed his way to the basin and splashed the water over his face. Wisps of pale fog drifted through the morning light, long white fingers off the river. Outside men and horses blundered through the chill of dawn; saddles were being cinched, wagons loaded, fires extinguished. The trumpets blew again: hurry hurry hurry. Knights vaulted onto snorting coursers while men-at-arms buckled their sword belts as they ran. 

When his squire came back, the boy was panting heavily. "Did you tell the lords?" he asked. The boy nodded hastily. Garlan gave him a smile and a light pat on his shoulder. "Good lad. Now get my armor," he said, "and be quick about it." Ser Tanton Fossoway was the first one to come trotting out of the mists, already armored and ahorse, shield in hand. His shield bore the red apple of House Fossoway of Cider Hall, and his yellow cloak was fastened with gold and garnets in the shape of an apple. "Do you know what's happened?" Garlan asked him.

"Lord Hoster stole a march on us," Ser Tanton said. "He crept down by the Red Fork in the night, and now his host is less than a mile north of here, forming up in battle array."

Hurry, the trumpets called, hurry hurry hurry.

"Get Edgerran and Arys. Parmen Crane and the others as well. See that the our knights are ready to form." He ducked back inside his tent. He rummaged through his chests and took out his padded green doublet with the rose of Tyrell stitched upon the front. Garlan pulled on his leather breeches boots as well. 

By the time he was dressed, his squire had laid out his armor. A fine suit of heavy plate, expertly crafted and gilded gold as the golden rose of Highgarden. His greatcloak was sewn from green samite and was held in place by a matched pair of roses made of soft yellow gold nestled in a bed of delicate green jade leaves. His green cloak sported the twin roses as well. The green enameled lobstered greaves and gauntlets and bracers went on next, all ornate with gold vines filled with thorns and roses. The buckles and fastenings were all gilded as well. 

Josh made a quick job with the buckles and clasps. "Get my sword and ready yourself as well," Garlan told his squire. The boy ran away to collect his sword. 

He lowered his greathelm down over his head, and Josh fastened it to his gorget. Garlan buckled on his belt, heavy with the weight of longsword and dirk. By then his groom had brought up his mount, a formidable brown courser armored as heavily as he was and draped with a white cloth patterned with roses. Garlan leapt onto the horse with a certain ease. Josh handed him up his shield, a massive slab of heavy oakwood painted green with a pair of golden roses. Garlan swung up the shield in his saddle. 

"Get your things and go meet Lord Caswell," Garlan told his squire. "He is to command the reserves." He unsheathed the sword, wheeled his horse about, and trotted off. Better the boy stay in the rear, Garlan thought. Should the battle turn sour for them he would have a greater chance of living in the rear than he had at the front lines. More chance for survival but less chance for glory as every young men aspired to win. No singers sang songs of men guarding the rear or defending the baggage train despite those actions were as important as those actions of a man who fights in the vanguard. A valiant deed unsung is no less valiant. 

Behind, his servants hurriedly began to strike his tent. Pale crimson fingers fanned out to the east as the first rays of the sun broke over the horizon. The western sky was a deep purple, speckled with stars.

A warhorn sounded in the far distance, a deep mournful note that chilled the soul. His men all climbed onto their garrons and coursers alike, shouting curses and other stuff. The rising sun was burning off the drifting tendrils of fog as Garlan led them off. What grass the horses had left was heavy with dew, as if some passing god had scattered a bag of diamonds over the earth. The mounted cavalry of Highgarden fell in behind him, for every knight there were ten men at arms.

In the dawn light, the army of Ser Garlan Tyrell unfolded like an iron rose, thorns gleaming.

His fellow lords were already shouting orders to the people around. Lord Edgerran Oakheart the Oakenshield, Lord of Old Oak was there with his youngest son Ser Arys by his side. The Fossoways had already come as well, Ser Tanton, Ser Edwyd and Ser Bryan from the red and Ser Jon from the green. Ser Parmen Crane and the Ambroses, Arthur and Edmund, Lord Alyn Cockshaw, Lord Steffon Varner, Ser Talbert Serry, Ser Leo Blackbar and dozen others. 

"Has the men been readied for battle?" he asked them. 

"Yes, Ser," Lord Edgerran said, a big and strong man, able and skilled with a sword. His once light brown hair had turned grey. It was well known throughout the Seven Kingdoms that it was Lord Randall Tarly and Lord Edgerran Oakheart who held a last stand against King Eddard Stark's northmen during the Battle of Wolfswood which had brought the precious time for King Rhaegar's army to safely retreat back and saved thousands of lives from being butchered that day. He was called the Oakenshield by the men ever since. 

"Good," Garlan told him. "No time to go through the battle plans once again but the plans remain the same as we discussed last night. I will lead the van from the center. Lord Edgerran commands our right and Ser Taton our left."

"Aye, Ser." The lords all said at once. 

Garlan thanked the gods that he had called for a war council last night. Elsewise they would have been in deep trouble right now. He had divided his host in three huge parts. Garlan would lead the center with some of the mounted knights and heavy cavalry forming up his vanguard. He had raised his standards in a good solid spot beside the red fork of the Trident. Quivers hanging from their belts, the foot archers arrayed themselves into three long lines, to east of their position in a high vantage point, and stood calmly stringing their bows. The pikemen formed squares in his centre; behind were rank on rank of men-at-arms with spear and sword and axe. Half a thousand heavy horse surrounded Garlan and some of the lords and knights, Phillip Footly, Crane, and Blackbar with all their sworn retainers.

The right wing was all cavalry, some four thousand men, heavy with the weight of their armor. More than three quarters of the knights in his army were there, massed together like a great steel fist. Lord Edgerran Oakheart had the command. Garlan saw his banner unfurl as his standardbearer shook it out; three green oak leaves on gold. Behind him flew Lord Arthur Ambrose's red ants, the coloured three feathers of Cockshaw, the bountiful golden horn of House Merryweather, and more.

Beside the river were another mass of cavalry, light horses which were suitable to ride in the soft muddy banks of the river. Ser Tanton Fossoway had the command of it. Around him, the left wing had formed; a huge force, half mounted and half foot, five thousand strong. The reserves stayed behind where they had camped under the command of Lord Caswell, another five thousand strong to help them should the battle turn sour.

Even from afar, his army would look strong and resplendent, he knew. The knights in all their flashing armors and their horses draped in different colors. There were plenty of banners fluttering about in the wind, the golden Rose of Tyrell most of them. 

Garlan could hear the rumble of the foemen's drums now. He remembered the Battle at Tumbler's Falls, the first battle of this war Lord Stark had started. Garlan had won a great victory that day, smashing the Lords Vance and Piper and the host they had brought with them. He remembered how the crows had feasted on the victors and the vanquished alike after the war. He had also won other victories from the riverlords who had come to defend their lands. Of all the battles he had fought this would be the hardest. His scouts had informed him that Lord Hoster had corrected the mistakes of his son by calling back the riverlords Ser Edmure had sent away to defend their lands and people, to mass under the walls of Riverrun. He was only a days march away from meeting them beneath the walls of Riverrun but Lord Hoster had a better mind for war than his son it seems as he took advantage of the night march to fight them unawares. 

The rivermen would be exhausted after their long sleepless march. Garlan wondered if Lord Hoster had thought to take them unawares while they slept? Small chance of that. He was no fool to set up camp without watchers and scouts.

The van was massing on the left between the left wing and the center bulk to fend off the enemy cavalry from exploiting the vulnerable position between the left wing and the block of pikemen. He saw the golden rose of House Tyrell flowing from a huge spear and his own his standard of twin roses next to it. Garlan lowered his visor and moved to the front followed by his knights and riders. 

Garlan leaned over his horse. "Make it clear to the archers to loose as many shafts as they can before our army engages with theirs," he told the Varner knight beside him. 

"Yes, Ser," the man replied. 

He pointed to the high slopes to the east where the archers were massing. "We have the vantage. Bleed their front lines when they charge, once they come to blows with our own men target the footmen next and then the reserves if they can."

The knight left nodding; his dull grey armor passing through the mists and taking his orders back to the archers. Garlan used his blade to point men into their position. His sword a gleaming silver steel, castle-forged and sharpened to the edge which had served him well. "Ser Tanton," he shouted from his position to Fossoway on the left by the riverbank. "Hold the left lines at all costs."

To turn their flank, the Tullys would need horses that could run on water. The red fork seemed deep and swift to Garlan but he could not be sure. The Riverlords knew their river better than his own reachmen knew them. 

Tanton Fossoway led his massed men toward the riverbank. He was pointing the river to his men with his sword. A blanket of pale mist still clung to the surface of the water, the murky green current swirling past underneath. The shallows were muddy and choked with reeds. 

Garlan wheeled his own horse to meet his men once more before the battle. "Men of the reach," he called them. "Three moons ago we got a call from our king to come forth and defend his lands against a terrible rebel and outlaw in the North. When the call came it is us who came first in defence of our realm. Words fail me to express the admiration I have for you all and I am proud to be called as the Commander of such brave men. Every man here with me, from lords and knights to the grooms, all offered their own service in these trying times. I thank you for that and I have no other option but to ask you for more. Not everyone of us will go on to be marked in the pages of history or to be sung and praised in the songs, but know that a valiant deed unsung is no less valiant. Now I ask you to do some valiant deeds, not so you could go down in the pages of history or so you could be sung and praised as heros. I ask you to show the valor for your family, for your loved ones, so that they may sleep safe in bed knowing that you are there to protect them and defend their lands. Let the people of the Reach know that their men are there to save them no matter who the foes are. The descendants of Garth Greenhand were the first to come in this land and let it be known that we are the last ones to leave it."

A huge cry was taken up by his entire army and the entire Riverlands was seemed to be filled with it. Swords were being waved in the air and the pikemen thumped their pikes against shields making a bang. "Tyrell!" someone shouted. Others picked up the cry, and the archers on the far right and the Fossoway men on the left as well. His men rattled their swords and spears. "Tyrell! Highgarden! Garlan!"

Garlan turned his courser in a circle to look over the field. The ground was rolling and uneven here; soft and muddy near the river, rising in a gentle slope toward the east. A few trees spotted the eastern line, but most of the land had been cleared and planted. His heart pounded in his chest in time to the drums, and under his layers of leather and steel his brow was cold with sweat. He watched as the vanguard formed into their battle formation behind him.

Lances were being handed to the knights, their steel tips glinting in sunlight. Garlan took his place in the center of the front lines. He drew his sword and stayed there waiting. 

The drums were so near that the beat crept under his skin and set his hands to twitching. And suddenly the enemy was there before them, boiling over the tops of the hills, advancing with measured tread behind a wall of shields and pikes. The cavalry line massed to the west by the river. 

He looked at them, a great host of twenty five thousand, no less than that. Their captains led them on armored warhorses, standard-bearers riding alongside with their banners. The cavalry was massed to their left. Looking at them Garlan wondered if they were bigger than his own left wing which was made of light horses rather than the heavy ones. The light cavalry was good to maneuver and move in the soft muddy ground of the river but it was no match to the strength of a massed iron fist of heavy cavalry. He glimpsed the Blackwood banners of dead wierwood on a blackshield surrounded by ravens on scarlet field, the dancing maiden of the Pipers, the green weeping willow of House Ryger, Lord Bracken's red stallion, the black bats of Whent and others. The blue and mud red of House Tully was everywhere, the silver trout seeming to leap as the banners swirled and streamed from the high staffs. Where is Lord Hoster? Garlan wondered. He didn't know if he was with the cavalry or the footmen. 

A warhorn blew. Haroooooooooooooooooooooooo, it cried, its voice as long and low and chilling as a cold wind from the north. His own trumpets answered, pa-PA pa-PA da-PAAAAAAAAA, brazen and defiant.

As the horns died away, a hissing filled the air; a vast flight of arrows arched up from his right, where the archers stood upon the eastern slopes. The rivermen broke into a run, shouting as they came, but the Tyrell arrows fell on them like hail, hundreds of arrows, thousands, and shouts turned to screams as men stumbled and went down. By then a second flight was in the air, and the archers were fitting a third arrow to their bowstrings.

The trumpets blared again, pa-PAAA pa-PAAA pa-PA pa-PA pa-PAAAAAAA. Garlan waved his sword above his head. "Lances at ready," he shouted. "For Highgarden!" Thousand other voices screamed back at him. He put his spurs to his horse and the van surged forward with him. "Tyrell! Highgarden!" he could hear people shout as they raced forward. The cavalry of the Tullys was not in their sight. He could not see them. He wondered if they were waiting for his cavalry to engage in the war in order to harry the bulk formation of pikemen at the center of his army in its flanks. He had massed his men, left both heavy cavalry and light cavalry on both sides of the phalanx, to protect the formation from any charge at their flanks. He could see that the footmen made the large part of the Tully army. If his van could smash the shield wall in the front lines, his own vanguard could rout them apart in no time leaving the iron fist under Ser Edgerran and the left wing under Ser Tanton to deal with the heavy cavalry of Riverrun. He was leading in the front when they broke a canter, his men following close behind him, lances now lowered at the enemy.

A crescent of enemy spearmen had formed ahead, a double hedgehog bristling with steel, waiting behind tall oaken shields marked with the silver trout of Tully. Garlan was the first to reach them, leading a wedge of his armored veterans. Half the horses shied at the last second, breaking their charge before the row of spears. The others died, sharp steel points ripping through their chests. Garlan saw a dozen men go down. His own courser reared, lashing out with iron-shod hooves as a barbed spearhead raked across his neck. Garlan controlled the beast with one arm, his sword at the other. He directed the horse to the spot where his knights had clashed against the wall and lunged the courser over the enemy ranks. Spears thrust at him from every side. Garlan used his sword to keep them away and cut down a couple of spearmen at the process. He got past the shield wall using the space the corpses he'd made provided. The rivermen stumbled away as he broke through their ranks. 

Ser Parmen Crane came bursting through the gap before the shields could close, in his purple cloak and armor. The other knights soon followed behind him. Garlan shouted, "Follow me!" and his knights replied with a battle cry. He cut down a man who was trying to strike his horse down with a spear and knocked another rider down with a smack across his armor covered face. He could see a horse impaled on a Tully spear come crashing down with the knight on top of it. Garlan rode down a couple of footmen and then traded blows with a knight in the livery of House Bracken before slaying him by shoving his sword through the visor. A flight of arrows descended on them; where they came from he could not say, but they fell on Tully and Tyrell alike, rattling off armor or finding flesh. Garlan supposed it might have been Tully arrows as he had given strict orders not to engage once his men had met theirs in fear of slaying their own.

The hedgehog was crumbling, the northerners reeling back under the impact of the mounted assault. Garlan caught a spearman full in the chest as he came on at a run. His sword sheared through mail and leather and muscle and lungs. The man was dead in no time. He swung his sword hardly to knock an axe out of a men at arms' hands and cut him down.

By then another enemy was on him, and Garlan's sword leapt just in time to block the blade to his head. The knight was quick to continue his attacks, slashing at his head and chest and the horse alike. Garlan parried all his blows waiting for the right time and he did not have to wait for long. His sword caught the knight right on his helm and sent his reeling off his horse. A man-at-arms thrust at his chest and his sword lashed out, knocking the spear aside. The man raised his shield over his head. Garlan circled around him, raining blows down on the wood. Chips of oak went flying, until the man lost his feet and slipped, failing flat on his back with his shield on top of him. He was below the reach of Garlan's sword, so he left him there and rode after another man, taking him from behind with a sweeping downcut that sent a jolt of impact up his arm. That won him a moment of respite. Reining up, he looked for the river. Behind he could see the left wing having a hard fighting with the Tully cavalry. The Tullys had used their knowledge to ford the Red fork where it ran shallow to engage with the left wing. He hoped that Ser Tanton could hold them off lest they could be taken in the flanks and the rear. Oakenshield could not hope to leave his position in the right without leaving the west side vulnerable. 

A Tyrell rider rode past, slumped against his horse. A spear had entered his belly and come out through his back. He was past any help. 

Another man at arms met him sword in hand. He was tall and spare, wearing a long chainmail hauberk and gauntlets of lobstered steel, but he'd lost his helm and blood ran down into his eyes from a gash across his forehead. Garlan aimed a swipe at his face, but the tall man swept it aside. He turned in a circle as Garlan rode around him, hacking at his head and shoulders. Steel rang on steel. The knight grunted, chopping at him savagely. Garlan parried his sword away. He could see that this man was skilled with a sword. He let the swordsman come in close for the kill and knocked him hard against his unprotected head and put him down. "Well fought, Ser," he told quietly. 

As he wrenched the blade free, he heard a shout. ‘Tully!" a voice rang out. "For Tully and Riverrun!" The knight came thundering down on him, swinging the spiked ball of a morningstar around his head. Their warhorses slammed together. Garlan stopped the spikes with his shield. The spikes punched through the wood so hard that it chipped wood. The morningstar was circling again, catching right across the horse's face. The courser reared and dropped down, dying. Garlan got up from the ground uninjured and missing his shield. The knight who had felled him rode around him, swinging his morningstar around his head for a killing blow. Garlan followed him with his eyes. When the horse came close in front of him he quickly stepped aside, parried the swinging morningstar away and slashed at the beast's front legs as he brought his sword back. 

His blade raked against the beast's chest and front legs and brought it down along with its rider. The horse fell away from him, crushing its rider beneath his its mass. The knight's leg was trapped.

"Do you yield?" Garlan asked him, his sword pointed at him. 

"Yield," the knight replied. Fumbling at his belt with his good hand, he drew a sword and flung it at Garlan's feet. "I yield, my lord."

Garlan nodded and lifted up the blade. Pain hammered through his elbow when he moved his arm. The battle seemed to have moved beyond him. No one remained on his part of the field save a large number of corpses, both men he killed and his men killed by the Tullys. Ravens were already circling and landing to feed. He saw that the center had reached safely in support of the van; his huge mass of pikemen had pushed the rivermen back against the way they had come. They were struggling on the slopes, pikes thrusting against another wall of shields, these oval and reinforced with iron studs. As he watched, the air filled with arrows again, and the men behind the oak wall crumbled beneath the murderous fire. Lord Edgerran had reached with his mounted riders at the right time as well, sweeping over the surviving footmen and the remaining Tully riders who were fighting his vanguard.

Behind him the struggling at the riverbank was still happening at full force. A good force of riverland knights were still fighting with his vanguard. Only the Tully footmen were being pushed away but the battle was still raging. Garlan did not wait to find a horse but ran straight to where the fighting was still thick between both riders of Tyrell and Tully. 

He cut down down the first men who came for him with a swing at his chest. Two more followed the first one as Garlan thrust his sword through the joint between the gorget and his breastplate and cleaved the face of the other. "Tyrell," told a knight in the red and blue armor of House Tully. A silver leaping trout was at the crest of his helmet. Lord Hoster, Garlan thought. The battle had somehow brought them together. 

Garlan brought down his sword at Lord Tully's head. The Lord of Riverrun blocked his sword with his own already stained in blood. Garlan thought to overwhelm the Lord Paramount of Riverlands with the speed and strength of youth, raining blows upon blows against Lord Hoster's shield. He was fighting without a shield now and so leapt back quickly and gracefully to defence whenever Lord Tully's blade jumped up close to him. Garlan kept almost all his slashes at bay and landed quick hits to Lord Hoster's shoulder, arms and waist. The armor kept his sword at bay. He moved for the joints after that, pushing Tully back with a flurry of attacks and driving his sword right through the armpit. The sword missed thrusting right through the man but it drew blood and forced Lord Tully to lower his guard. Before he could deal with a killing blow though, two of Riverrun's guardsmen came to the defense of their lord, blocking Garlan's path to their Lord. Garlan cut down one and then the other and before he could reach Lord Tully again a knight with the weeping willow surcoat stopped him. Garlan tried his best to get past him, pressing on his attack but the knight blocked them all and held him off. 

Around them Lord Edgerran Oakheart's iron fist had overwhelmed the Tully riders and sending them off from the field. When the Ryger knight saw his liege Lord was safe and away he took the reigns of the fleeing horse and left along with his fellow rivermen leaving off their duel with a murderous glare.

Oakenshield thundered across the field, the gold cloak of his streaming from his shoulders. Five hundred knights surrounded him, sunlight flashing off the points of their swords. The remnants of the Tully lines shattered like glass beneath the hammer of their charge.

"Get me a horse," Garlan shouted and some man at arms with the green cloak of the Tyrells brought him one. He ought to chase them and capture them before they could get back inside Riverrun. Before he could start the chase though, another warhorn sounded from the South. Ser Tanton, he knew at once, fighting by the river behind them. He risked letting his men die by giving the chase to the Tullys. If he went back to protect his men, the rivermen would be back safe behind their walls. The gods only knew how long it would be before he could starve them out with a siege. He looked at the fleeing men and then back at his own fighting to save their lives. Cursing, Garlan turned his horse around.   
"Back to the river," he shouted and rallied his men around. 

When they rode hard and joined the fight with Tanton Fossoway and the reserves under Lord Caswell, the remaining of the Tully cavalry broke and ran. As the Tullys broke away and ran from the field a great cry split the air and Garlan Tyrell knew that the day was theirs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garlan the Gallant in action for the first time. Hope I did him justice. There were some difficult choices for Garlan to make in the end, but I believe if Garlan was ever placed in such a position even in canon he wouldn't have chosen differently. Garlan Tyrell is a genuine good guy. I hope you guys like this chapter. Leave a comment and let me know what you liked and what you did not. I'd love to hear your thoughts. Thanks for reading my story and have a nice day.


	10. Chapter 10

**__ **

**__ **

**_Andrew_ **

The woods were full of whispers.

Moonlight winked on the tumbling waters of the stream below as it wound its rocky way along the floor of the valley. Beneath the trees, warhorses whickered softly and pawed at the moist, leafy ground, while men made nervous jests in hushed voices. Now and again, he heard the chink of spears, the faint metallic slither of chain mail, but even those sounds were muffled.

His army formed behind him, beneath the canopies of the trees of the Whispering Woods. His men spoke of another battle in a forest back in their homeland, the Wolfswood. His father had won a great victory that day, smashing a huge force of Rhaegar Targaryen, twice the size of his own and ending the Targaryen conquest of the North once and for all. Andrew sat on his warhorse in front of them, hearing and waiting. Waiting for death or victory, he could not say. No one was safe in a war, in a fight. No life was certain. He ought to know that better than anyone. His mother, Joy and countless other innocent lives... He waited thinking about them, the women in his life, violet eyes, green eyes, the maid of stars and the summer maid, listening to the whispers in the woods and the faint music of the brook.

It felt odd thinking about himself in place of his father, in front of his army. Most of the men he had with him had fought with him in all his battles, shared his victory and glory while Andrew was waiting for his royal father in the safety of his castle with his mother. They would wait for him in Winterfell, standing patiently on the battlements of the great grey castle as the cold wind of the North blew past them sending chills down their backs. He did not always come when he promised he would. That had not stopped the little boy from running to the battlements of Winterfell every day. Every day until he could see King Eddard on his great black warhorse, trotting along the Kingsroad surrounded by his Lords and warriors and the glory of victory shining behind him like sunrise. Andrew would run to him as fast as his little legs would allow him. "Papa! Papa! did you fight ice spiders?" he would ask when his father took him up in his arms to hug him. "Yeah, I did," King Eddard would say smiling. "I punched it in the face and grabbed it by the legs and swung it far away beyond the Wall." Back then he had no idea where his father had gone to and it hadn't mattered as long as he returned. And he always returned except from Starfall.

And now it him who waited as his father had waited for any army who would threaten his lands and people. He was not new to fight, had never feared for his life, but looking at all the men behind him, he could not help but think of getting them all back to their homes safely. Their sons would wait for their fathers as Andrew had once waited for his, their wives would wait for their husbands as Queen Ashara had once waited for hers. He remembered Joy Hill and somehow it felt as if it was his duty to bring them back to them safely.

Ghost moved restlessly beside him among the trees. His lords bannermen were making good use of time before they rode into battle. He knew not everyone would come back alive this night. They knew it as well but none showed it as they laughed with their arms around the shoulders of the other, sharing jests with one another, helping each others with their horses and armour. He could hear the soft clinking of armours behind him. All were covered in armour and protection except their king. Only Andrew had forgone the protection of armour much to the disappointment of his lords. "Your Grace," Lord Robett had voiced his concern. "Its dangerous going to battle without armour. What would happen should you fall?"

"Don't worry too much about me, my lord," Andrew smiled at him, sadly. "I did not come all the way here just to die." He was unused to fighting in armour and was mostly uncomfortable in it. It was the main reason he had come leading an army for a battle in just his woolen white jacket and a cotton shirt beneath it and a matching brown leather pants and boots. The clothes he always preferred, no matter what.

A gentle breeze stirred his dark hair, neat and slicked back. Andrew smoothed his beard and looked at Ghost beside him. Even with near forty thousand men behind him, he felt alone and the direwolf was his true and only companion. His cousin had left with Lord Beric and his band to deal with the Tyrell outriders and watchers.

The night was warm. They had arrived that morning with all their mounted cavalry leaving the footmen in the command of Lord Galbart Glover. Andrew had given the Lightning Lord three hundred picked men, and sent them ahead to screen his march. "The Tyrells does not know," Lord Beric said when he rode back. "I'll stake my life on that. No bird has reached him, my archers have seen to that. We've seen a few of Tyrell's outriders, but those that saw us did not live to tell of it. He ought to have sent out more. He does not know."

"How large is his host?" Andrew asked him.

"About twenty five thousand foot, maybe more, scattered around the castle in three separate camps, with the rivers between," Lord Beric said. "That will be their undoing. Four or five thousand horse."

"Tyrell has almost as our own numbers," said Lord Medger Cerwyn.

‘True enough," Lord Beric said, "but the entire strength is split into three."

"That's the only way one can siege Riverrun," said Lord Jason Mallister. "The castle is situated at the end of the point of land where the Tumblestone flows into the Red Fork of the Trident. The rivers form two sides of a triangle, and when danger threatens, the Tullys open their sluice gates upstream to create a wide moat on the third side, turning Riverrun into an island. The walls rise sheer from the water, and from their towers the defenders have a commanding view of the opposite shores for many leagues around. To cut off all the approaches, a besieger must needs place one camp north of the Tumblestone, one south of the Red Fork, and a third between the rivers, west of the moat. There is no other way, none."

His host was greater than it had been when they left the Twins. Lord Jason Mallister had brought his power out from Seagard to join them as they swept around the headwaters of the Blue Fork and galloped south, and others had crept forth as well, hedge knights and small lords and masterless men-at-arms who had fled north when Lord Hoster's army was shattered beneath the walls of Riverrun. They had driven their horses as hard as they dared to reach this place before Garlan Tyrell had word of their coming, and now the hour was at hand.

Andrew mounted up then. Olyvar Frey held his horse for him, Lord Walder's son, two years older than Andrew and yet his squire. When he handed a shield Andrew avoided it. Fighting with a shield would nullify the use of his hidden blades at close combat. The only steel upon his person was his father's crown. Andrew took the crown off his brow and gave it to Olyvar. When he gave his crown away, Frost replaced it in his hands. The valyrian steel gleamed blue as if it was engraved with ice in place of steel. The sound of steel scraping on leather as he unsheathed his blade was more welcoming than the silence he had felt that entire day. He ought to ride down the line as father used to do. He could almost hear his mother explaining him why his father had always done that once he had grown older enough to understand. "Let your men see you, Andrew," she had said, "your face, your courage and valour. You can only win battles if you go to a fight knowing that there are a thousand men behind you to support you. But if those thousands behind you took courage from the knowledge that you are in front of them to support and protect them you can win wars."

Andrew raised his sword and trotted his stallion slowly in front of his men. Ghost shadowed his steps. Behind him his battle guard formed up as it had once formed for his father. He would have avoided that as well but the lords bannermen had insisted and he finally agreed to have his own Elite Royal guard. Most of the sons and heirs of the northern lords made up the guard. Many of them had clamoured for the honour of riding with the Dragonslayer, as they had taken to calling him. Torrhen Karstark and his brother Eddard were among his thirty, and Patrek Mallister, Smalljon Umber, Daryn Hornwood, Benfred Tallhart, no less than five of Walder Frey's vast brood, along with older men like Ser Wendel Manderly and Robin Flint.

He had never had anyone guarding him, not for some ten years or so. Now almost forty thousand swords surrounded him with Andrew at the head of them, bearing his banners, shouting his name and believing in him just like they had once believed his father.

A bird called faintly in the distance, a high sharp trill that felt like a song of swords. Another bird answered; a third, a fourth. He knew their call well enough, from his years at Winterfell. Snow shrikes. They were northern birds. Their sound was welcoming in this southern land.

Andrew walked his horse before the men assembled in battle formations. Olyvar Frey held his banner beside him, a great cloth of white velvet done in the shape of a large shield, with the racing direwolf done in silver thread. He stopped when he saw Rolf, a pikeman from Winterfell in the front lines looking as hard as anyone there. Andrew knew him and his prowess at battle from his father. King Eddard had hosted Rolf, a common man-at-arms, many a times in his own high table for the services he'd done for the Starks in battles.

"Rolf," Andrew called him. "You were a great soldier to my father, as great as any lords who are here. There hasn't been a day passed where I haven't thought about you and your family's service to my family and I thank you for that."

The man's face beamed as he straightened his chest and stood tall and proud. "I'll serve your family till I breathe my last, your Grace."

Andrew nodded and set his horse forward. "Lord Karstark," he called Lord Rickard at the head of his column of Karstark horses and men at arms. "I still mourn your son at Starfall, just like I mourn Ethan Glover, Old Lord Roderick Dustin, Dacey Mormont, Gait Cerwyn, Jon Locke, Lord Roger Flint and all the others who died bravely at Starfall. It's an honour to fight beside the kin of such brave men and women. We fight for them today." He wheeled his horse around and eyed his men again. "You've all honoured your country and your ancestors and now we've come to this place away from our own homeland where across from us Rhaegar has finally gathered a vast army. Yes, these men who side with him are so many and they have dragons. But ask yourselves, who is this great king who murders people under guest right, in a most despicable and cowardly manner? These men do not fight for the homes. They fight because this king tells them they must. And when they fight they will melt away like air before us because they know no loyalty to the king of slaves. But we are not here today as slaves. We are here today as free men." A huge cry erupted across the forest. Men shouted over their lungs, pikes were banged against shields and the clang of swords and axes and maces filled the Whispering Woods. "Some of you, perhaps myself, will not live long to see the sun rise over these lands tomorrow, but I say to you whatever you warriors have known since the beginning of time, conquer your fear and I promise you, you will conquer death." Lord Greatjon Umber roared into the night air and the men took up his cry. Andrew had to wait for the roar to subside before talking. "I am here this day as a free man and should I fall let men say that I died as a free man." He pulled the reigns of his courser suddenly and the stallion reared on its hind legs, it's front legs kicking in the air over the heads of men. "To Freedom and justice for the North." Andrew raised Frost and the blue sword shone like a bright star of ice, burning.

"To the North!" Almost forty thousand men roared at the same time that the entire forest seemed to shake, the trees swayed and ravens flew forth from their nests.

He moved away from the men at a trot, leading his men downhill. When he brought his stallion down and rode him down the slopes of trees of the Whispering Woods, the thread of many horses could be heard behind him. To the right by a hill, he could see the archers lightning up their arrows. Andrew did not look back or slow his speed as he charged towards the Tyrells. All around him, the riders raised their lances, and the dirt and leaves that had buried the cruel bright points fell away to reveal the gleam of sharpened steel.

The whispering wood let out its breath all at once, as the bowmen Andrew had hidden in the branches of the trees let fly their arrows and the night erupted with the screams of men and horses. A thousand arrows took to the air like some descending comets and lightened up the camps encircling Riverrun. The camps took fire at once, wood and fabric all burning alike and soon men started running out of the camps. Before they could do much another wave of arrows flew past and found men and animals alike. Wherever the arrows found purchase, they burned.

Even from afar Andrew could see that the camps were well organized and well set. Despite the sudden attack on their camps, the Tyrell forces quickly rallied. They were well led. Rafts were ferrying men across the rivers. The bulk of their forces were placed to the West in between the Tumblestone and the Red Fork facing the gates of Riverrun. Andrew wondered if Ser Garlan was trying to assault the castle gates.

As they moved closer the sounds of horses and men alike could be heard, both the cries of the burning and the shouts of others. The rattle of swords and spears and armour, filled the night air and the murmur of human voices, with a shout here, and there a curse.

The sounds grew louder. He heard someone laugh behind him and the splashing of water as they crossed a little stream. When they rode out of the ranks of trees of the Whispering Woods, he shouted a command and his Royal Guard followed him along with a great number of armoured horses split from the central host to take on the west camp where the Tyrell rose could be seen in plenty. They had planned to take out all three camps at once by splitting their army, encircling them from all three sides to push and break them against the walls of Riverrun. Andrew had taken the command of the west wing to deal with the west camp of the Tyrells by the gates of Riverrun. Lord Jason Mallister was given command to attack the camp north of the Tumblestone and Lord Roose Bolton was tasked with burning down the eastern camp.

Andrew led his men into four long columns of armoured horses across the Tumblestone against the western camp of the Tyrells. Back in the banks of the Tumblestone from where they had come from the north, Lord Jason Mallister had already taken the northern camp off guard. His men were already engaging with the Tyrells and the burning tents had lightened up the night so that the fighting could be done in clear sight.

Andrew could see Lord Jason in the front lines, his indigo armour chased with silver, gleaming in the moonlight. His knights came behind him, long columns of them, knights and northmen and other sworn swords and a quarter of his total cavalry.

The fighting had gone full-fledged in the northern camp. The Tyrells had now rallied forth to fight his men. Far to the east, he could not see if Roose Bolton had managed to get across the river to the eastern camp. The river would be deep on that side, Lord Jason had instructed. They had not had the time to build rafts to ferry them across. If Lord Bolton could capture some of them...

Before him the western camp spread out for leagues. Andrew could see the Tyrell standards in prominence here. He wondered if Ser Garlan was here. If so he could turn this battle to their side in no time.

The Tyrell men were already waiting for them in their camps, men groggy with sleep and clothed hastily with anything they could find. When he looked across the muddy road to the far bank, he saw the Tyrell knights had already emerged from their tents and siege towers. They formed up in a long line, an endless line, and as they burst forth from the riverbank to meet his own men all Andrew saw for a moment was the orange glow on the points of their lances, as if a thousand fireflies were coming down the road, wreathed in flame.

Andrew charged against them Frost raised in hand, blue ice against orange flames. Ghost raced in front of him, leaping upon a man and taking his head clean off his shoulders by the time he landed. The second kill came to Andrew as Frost cleaved a man's face clean in half.

He could hear the fighting all around him now, as his men crashed with the Tyrell men and the valley rang with echoes. The crack of a broken lance, the clash of swords, the cries of "Tyrell" and "Winterfell" and "Eddard! Andrew! and Dragonslayer!" The battle came alive around him. He heard hoofbeats, iron boots splashing in shallow water, the woody sound of swords on oaken shields and the scrape of steel against steel, the hiss of arrows, the thunder of drums, the terrified screaming of a thousand horses.

Andrew slashed down every foe he passed. Frost found someone or something to cut everywhere he directed it. The icy cold steel bit through mail and leather alike and soon his frost blue sword turned blood red. Dimly, he heard cheers from the men on the walls of Riverrun. They were fighting now as well. Shafts of arrows and boulders flew from the walls.

An arrow came so close to him that he could almost feel it's breath against his cheek. Andrew jumped away from his horse and the arrow at the right time. The arrow missed his eye by an inch. Had his jump come a heart beat later he would have been dead for sure.

Unhorsed and on foot, it slowed him a bit, but that did not stop him any way. Andrew cut down an archer, opened a spearman from shoulder to armpit, shoved Frost through the eye slit of a grape cluster-crested helm. Frost sliced off limbs, took off half the heads of helmless men, cut down knights and peasants alike.

Their rallied foes were now fleeing back, not being able to withstand the charge of his armoured horses. Andrew chased them ahead of his riders. As always Ghost followed him. The direwolf seemed as if he belonged there. He snarled and growled and wherever he went men and beasts alike ran away from him. Ghost tore the throat of a charging mount and then ripped the rider's arm right from his shoulder.

Wherever Andrew passed he left a scatter of corpses behind him. His white jacket was red to the elbow, glistening in the light off the river. Downriver, the men who tried to get across on rafts were pushed downstream and were soon pelted with rocks by the Tullys with the catapults on their walls. Andrew saw one raft smashed to kindling and three others overturned. He could see fighting all along the riverfront. Ghost took a knight down as the man came charging at Andrew and bounded off quickly once he ripped off the man's throat.

He heard anguished screams all around him, the hungry crackle of flame, the shuddering of warhorns, and the brazen blast of trumpets. Fire was everywhere and it seemed as if all of the Trident was ablaze. He saw the Lightening Lord and Thoros of Myr with their flaming swords routing a group of Tyrell riders. Ned Dayne was with them, eleven years old and fearless like a seasoned warrior who had fought in half a hundred wars. Knights twice his size fled before him.

There were still men for him to slay. The Tyrells were still fighting, he could see. Knights and lords alike fled from him when they saw who he was, or stood and died. Another spearman ran at him. Andrew lopped off the head of his spear, then his hand, then his arm, and put him out of his misery by thrusting Frost through his heart. A knight in the livery of House Tyrell thrust at him with his sword, trying to gut him. Andrew parried the blade away and before the knight could bring his sword back to defend himself, he drove it into his throat. A man-at-arms tried his best to attack him from behind. Andrew spun around knocked the blade aside and buried Frost in the nape of the man's neck.

Suddenly he was surrounded by four foes or more, he didn't know. All he knew was that he lopped the head off the first spear that came at him, and raked his blade across a second man's face on his backslash, shoved his left hidden blade on the third man's throat, caught a spear across the shaft, pulled the wielder to him and buried Frost right in his eye, snapped the borrowed spear shaft against the head of a helmless knight and cut down the last one across his chest, opening him from his shoulder to his hip.

Little by little, the sounds dwindled and died, until at last there was only a token force of the Tyrells still holding. A good amount of spearmen formed up a shieldwall, wide as the road to the gates of Riverrun itself, and three ranks in deep. Andrew walked to the front of his force, still a great force compared to the destroyed Tyrells. "Bring me a horse," he told to Olyvar Frey who seemed to have followed him. When his squire brought him a horse, Lord Beric and Thoros of Myr had already formed to charge against the shield wall. Andrew joined them at the front.

They rode forth in unison and charged against the shield wall. Most of the horses reared at the last minute afraid of facing the steel tip of the spears. Some were brave and died. The armoured horses did better by slamming against the shield wall but did not manage to break it. "Turn back. We'll swing around again," he commanded.

Lord Beric shouted, "Turn around!" And they were off again. They rode for quite a distance away from the shield wall and wheeled around again to face the spearmen. Before they could start the charge though, came the call of a great warhorn, a long low blast that rolled down the rivers from the walls of Riverrun. A moment of silence filled the air after that and then the gates of the castle opened to the riders from the inside. Before the Tyrells could make out what was happening, the rivermen were onto them and took them in the rear. The shield wall crumbled at once and when his own men smashed them in the front any hope the Tyrells had of holding out were thwarted.

Soon after that sounds of victory were announced. HAAroooooooooooooooooooooooo the sound split the night air as the Greatjon winded his own horn, to tell their allies that they had destroyed the camp between the rivers. From the far banks to the north, the trumpets of the Mallisters and Freys blew vengeance signalling their own victory. There was nothing but silence to the east, as he waited for an answer.

The Greatjon rode past him to the siege towers the Tyrells were building. "Let's give the fucking dragons their own medicine," he said and flung his torch over the unfinished wooden structures. The wood and hide took fire and the tower started burning. Rickard Karstark joined him and burned the other two towers.

He thought about gathering his men again and riding for the eastern camp to find out what had happened there. Then the rivermen who had come forth from Riverrun met him at the drawbridge. It only took one look for him to find out their commander. Lord Tytos Blackwood was mounted on a black destrier. Very tall and lean, the Lord of Raventree Hall had a hook nose, long hair, and a ragged salt-and-pepper beard that showed more salt than pepper. In silver inlay on the breastplate of his burnished scarlet armor was a white tree bare and dead, surrounded by a flock of onyx ravens taking flight. A cloak of raven feathers fluttered from his shoulders. "King Andrew," he said offering his hand in friendship.

"Lord Tytos," Andrew clasped his hand by the forearm. "My father always said you were a good friend to the Starks."

"So are the Starks to me and my family," Lord Tytos smiled. "The sight of you here relieves me, my Lord. The Lords of the Trident thank you for your help against these invaders."

"The pleasure is mine," Andrew told him. "Do you know what happened in the eastern camp? I haven't heard anything from them."

"Worry not, my lord," Lord Tytos said. "The Arryns are here. The camp is overrun."

Lord Arryn was here. So Asher has kept his promise. He could not wait to thank his men and the Arryns. As if to answer his thoughts the warhorns added their own deep, mournful voices from the east and Knights of the Vale echoed them with their own.

There was nothing much left to the battle after that but pure slaughter. Anyone who refused to yield were cut down at once. Those who put down their weapons were given the gift of mercy and were imprisoned. Among captured were a lot. Lords of great names and small, renowned knights and other men-at-arms.

The most important of the prisoners was delivered to him by Lord Beric and the Red Priest. A mob of men followed them, dirty and dented and grinning. Between them they dragged Ser Garlan Tyrell. They threw him down in front of Andrew and Lord Tytos. "Tyrell," Lord Karstark announced, "how do you like them fires now? Thought you were safe from it by siding with the dragons, didn't you?"

Ser Garlan raised his head and looked up from his knees. Blood ran down one cheek from a gash across his scalp and his brown hair was matted with blood and sweat.

"Take him away and put him in irons," Andrew told his men.

"Aye," the Greatjon laughed. "There must be some room in the dungeons of Riverrun. We'll how roses fare in the dark."

"That we will," Lord Tytos agreed and gestured to his men. Ser Garlan Tyrell was led away to be bandaged and chained.

Ghost came back to him as Tyrell was taken away. "Ghost," Andrew called. "To me, boy." The white wolf's face had turned red with blood. Blood covered his white fur from his muzzle to the thick mane around his neck. His eyes were shining and the gleam was the only thing which set the eyes apart from the blood on his fur.

Andrew knelt down and rubbed him under the jaw. He could not help but see how much alike they both looked then. All clad in white and covered red in blood. The direwolf gave him the comfort he very much needed. Andrew mounted up his horse and trotted through the drawbridge to the castle of Riverrun with Ghost by his side and the lords and warriors following him as the eastern sky shone with the arrival of dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first battle of Andrew Stark "the Born King." Hope I did a good job of it. I wanted Andrew to mirror his father as much as possible and incorporated some certain things of how Andrew remembered Ned and made a replica of it with Andrew himself in this chapter. Congratulations to anyone who find those similarities. Tbh, I wrote this chapter listening to the "Last of the Starks" soundtrack from Season Eight of GOT and some of the scenes(Andrew's past with his dad) actually made me sad as I wrote them. It's such a great and powerful music(congratulations to Ramin). Really recommend hearing it as you read the chapter to get the complete feel. The soundtrack perfectly embodies this chapter as it starts slowly in grief and then climbs up the steps of glory and lastly ends in a winning note. 
> 
> Sorry for the long rant there. This chapter actually made myself feel as I wrote about it. Hope you guys like it. Leave a comment and let me know if you felt the way I did.


	11. Chapter 11

**_Argella_ **

Her father's host split at the Rainwood by the light of a golden dawn, uncoiling from behind the log palisades they had set up to guard their camps at night like a long, steel serpent emerging from its nest.

Her father's knights rode out in plate and mail, dinted and scarred by the battles they had fought, but still bright enough to glitter when they caught the rising sun. Faded and stained, sodden with wet, their banners and surcoats still made a riot of colors amidst the Rainwood-azure and orange, red and green, purple and blue and gold, glimmering amongst green moss covered trunks, grey-green pines and sentinels, the fallen autumn leaves. Each knight had his squires, servants, and men-at-arms. Behind them came armorers, cooks, grooms; ranks of spearmen, axemen, archers; grizzled veterans of a hundred battles and green boys off to fight their first. Before them marched the great Lords of the Stormlands; lords and champions astride armoured destriers, their valiant fighters trotting beside them, clad in shining armours and boiled leather and old mail. Back of the main column the baggage train followed: smaller than the one which stayed with the camp under the command of her uncle. Her father had brought only a little of provisions to hasten up his march. The great part of the mules, horses, oxen, a mile of wayns and carts laden with food, fodder, tents, and other provisions were left with uncle Stannis who led the largest part of the army. Lastly came the rear guard-more knights in plate and mail, with a screening of outriders following half-hidden to make certain no foe could steal up on them unawares.

The huge host of the Stormlanders split into three. Her father led the huge part of the cavalry with the mounted knights off to the west to the Howling Hill. The bulk of the army, with five thousand cavalry and four times as much infantry was led by her uncle Stannis. Uncle Renly rode North with Lords Fell, Errol and Buckler and they were riding forth straight for the reach army who would fight them soon. Her father had given them command to harass the reachmen and to subtly push them towards the Howling Hill where the Baratheon brothers had planned to meet them in battle. All three contingents of the army held a great duty on their shoulders and her father had made the risky gamble of splitting his host into three seperate parties to meet the huge host of the Reach which outnumbered his massed army.

Argella Baratheon rode in the host led by her father, dressed in her black armoured leather jerkin, black pants attached with knee and shin guards and finished the attire with fine black boots. She topped off the Baratheon black that day and it fit well with her dark hair which she had styled in a simple braid over one shoulder.

Her mother had been so against her marching for battle but Argella had no choice but to go and help her father with her knowledge about underground caverns she'd found. Joffrey had been chosen first to lead the way but then her brother had spoiled everything by hiding behind mother and muttering stupidly that he had somehow forgotten the way. Not that Argella minded marching with the army, rather she loved it very much and she had always wanted to do that. For that she ought to thank her brother over everyone. If it was not for Joff, she would have been forced to stay back with mother in the camp.

Trumpets saw the column on its way. Spearpoints shone in the light of the rising sun, and all along the verges the grass glistened with the morning dew. Between their camp and the Howling Hill lay some twenty leagues of forest. Her uncle Stannis would march straight for the southern hill to meet the reachmen. "Three days," the knights told each other.

It would not be the same for Ella and the host she was supposed to lead.

"Tarly will not fight on our terms," Uncle Stannis had advised her father the night the battle plans were drawn in her father's pavilion. Her father had once suffered a minor defeat at the hands of Randyll Tarly at Ashford before she had born. "He will not come deep into the woods knowing that we'll know the woods better than his own men."

"Neither will we on his terms," declared her father. "We'll move by the cover of the forest away from him, luring him here." He pointed to the Howling Hill painted on the map which was set before him. "This is where you came across the Tarly foragers?" He asked Joff.

Joffrey seemed unsure and still shaken from the near dead experience he had come across at the end of their adventure. "I don't know father," he admitted, lips trembling.

Robert Baratheon regarded his youngest son with cold blue eyes. "Damn it, boy," he said. "Don't you even know the lands you walk upon?"

Even uncle Stannis grinded his teeth in disapproval. Mother tried to shield Joff as always. "Stop it, Robert," she said. "We don't need him to remember every single tree or cave in these lands."

"Seven hells, woman," Lord Robert said banging his fist against the table. "It is your guarding that keeps on spoiling him."

Joff was in the verge of crying Argella could see. Before he let the tears fall and make a fool out of himself before the proud Stormlords, Argella let herself be known to save her little brother from further mockery. "Yes, we saw them there father," she told him. "They were telling that they were not so far away from Lord Tarly and the Princess upon her dragon."

"Right," her father told her. "And do you remember the way there?"

"I do," she said.

"Good." Her father eyed her brother and then back to her. Joff looked at her as if she had caused all that.

"So we will push the reachmen here and fight them at the Hill." Her father pointed to the small painted arrowheads on the map which indicated the Howling Hill.

Uncle Stannis looked at the map. "This might work," he said after a moment. "If we could push Tarly to the Hill, his huge numbers would almost be useless. And with the help of the caverns. . ."

And so the plan had been approved by her lord father. Here they were now, the huge host splitting into three.

Argella rode with the lady Brienne of Tarth who was the only woman besides her in the army. Despite her attempts to get to know more about the lady warrior, Brienne stayed strangely silent. Ella should not have been surprised. The homely young woman had kept to herself all through their journey, spending most of her time with her father or the horses, brushing out their coats and pulling stones from their shoes. Any task her liege or her father asked her to turn her hand to, Brienne had performed deftly and without complaint, and when she was spoken to she answered politely, but she never chattered, nor wept, nor laughed. She had ridden with them every day and slept among them every night without ever truly becoming one of them.

Gendry only had good things to say about her. Her brother told her about Lady Brienne's valour at Griffin's Roost when he had led his men over the walls to open the gates for father and his army.

Ella hummed a tune as she rode to keep her company. The Rains of Castamere caught her fancy that morning as a half-Lannister.

"There was always a singer at Evenfall Hall when I was a girl," Brienne said quietly when she heard her tune. "I learned all the songs by heart."

"My septa pushed that I do the same, though I never found any interest in songs." It was song of steel she preferred over courtly songs and the comfort of her bow and arrow to the needle.

Brienne said, "I remember a woman . . . she came from some place across the narrow sea. I could not even say what language she sang in, but her voice was as lovely as she was. She had eyes the color of plums and her waist was so tiny my father could put his hands around it. His hands were almost as big as mine." She closed her long, thick fingers, around the reins of the horse.

"Did you sing for your father?" Ella asked.

Brienne shook her head, staring down at groud as if to find some answer in the mud and moss.

"For Uncle Renly?"

The girl reddened. "Never, I, didn't, and I . . . "

She had known that Lady Brienne was madly in love with her uncle Renly. She could see it written all over her, in her eyes or the way she felt uncomfortable in the presence of Renly. Argella smiled lightly. "Don't worry, Lady Brienne, your secret is safe with me."

Brienne looked at her with her big blue eyes full of sincere. "Thank you, my lady."

"Please call me Argella."

"I can't, my lady," Brienne said. "It would be proper. . ."

"Do you see me care about propriety?" Ella said. "I call my father as father before his Lords, call my brothers by their names rather than their titles. I prefer my name over that of the Lady before it."

"If you insist then, I'll address you thusly, my la- Argella."

Argella smiled. "You ought to teach me some of the songs you know."

"I . . . please, I have no gift." Brienne looked down nervously.

"Well, I was not so gifted at learning songs as well," Ella admitted. "Perhaps you could teach me how to fight. Gendry tells me that you are so good at that."

"My Lord is so gracious," Brienne said. "I only did as much as any man would do."

"More so than any man as I'd heard of it," Ella said.

"It was hardly a heroic deed, my lady," Brienne said. "Your brother did most of that. He was very much like Lord Robert in that."

Ah, yes, the good old comparison of her father and her brother. She has heard that ever since she could understand her letters and words. Gendry this, Gendry that, a great warrior, notorious and deadly like her father. All the while, she had been compared to her mother, soft and sweet in silks, the fairest maid of the realm. Even when she had preferred leather to silks and a bow to harp, the similarities with her mother kept coming, mostly from the singers who sought to win gifts from her father and the young knights who sought to win her favour. She could be more like her father too, given the chance. She had won knighthood from her father, the first woman to ever do so. But those actions never captured the hearts of men as much as her beauty did.

"He is," Argella admitted. "Did your father teach you to fight as well?"

"Ser Goodwin taught me what I know," Brienne said. "He was the master-at-arms at Evenfall Hall. He was a good man."

"Your father must really love you to let you practice swordplay," Argella told her. "My father is the same as well. He knighted me, you see. Perhaps I could ask him to knight you as well. You deserve it and so do your father for raising such a fine woman."

"He does," Brienne said.

"Do you have any brothers?" Ella asked her companion.

"No," Brienne's blue eyes filled with grief. Argella could see her pain in her eyes and the sudden slack of her strong shoulders. "He deserves that. A strong and gallant son to bring honor to his name. A daughter too, who could sing to him and grace his hall and bear him grandsons. My brother Galladon drowned when I was four and he was eight, though, and Alysanne and Arianne died still in the cradle. I am the only child the gods let him keep. The freakish one, not fit to be a son or daughter."

"That's not true," Argella declared at once. She was angry beyond reason. Why would anyone call a person freak just because they were not easy in the eye. She hated it. She knew people called her uncle Tyrion ugly and mean names. It enraged her beyond any reason. "You are the pride of your father else he wouldn't have brought you here in the midst of these great lords. You should not bother with the people who would think less of you." Suddenly she remembered what uncle Tyrion had once told her about a lesson he'd learned in life. "Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you."

A little bit of light had returned to Brienne's eyes. "Thank you, my lady," she said. "You're so kind. No one has shown any kindness towards me. Thank you for caring."

"Its Ella. My name's Argella."

The army covered twenty-two miles the first day, by the reckoning of the guides who lived in the Rainwood, trackers and hunters sworn to Storm's End, Felwood and Amberly with clan names like Rain and Woods, Moss and Hale. The second day the host made twenty-four and reached the caves she had founded. As their vanguard passed through the caves into the caverns of the Children of the Forest, Argella rode at the head of them along with her father and brother at the head of the vanguard. She called Lady Brienne to ride with her. The lady warrior was unsure of it but Ella insisted and finally got Brienne to ride with her.

When she had brought them halfway to the other side, the army stopped to rest in the vast hall from where she had heard the voices of the Tyrell outriders when she had come here before with her brother. The horses were watered from the underground streams and pools and they supped on the supplies they had brought with them. Argella brought Brienne to her father's camp for supper. Brienne was the only daughter of Lord Selwyn and his heir, and it was only right to sit her on Lord Robert's own table, where he supped with his captains and commanders.

No pavilion was erected in the cave as they were safe from the rain. Her father sat on the ground with his men around a fire, talking with them and laughing. He seemed to be at home there, sitting there sharing jokes. There was no hard lines creasing his forehead when he would hold court and settle disputes. A huge leg of an aurochs was suspended over the nightfire, spitting and cracking and the dark cavern was washed alight with swirls of flame.

A dozen men were sitting with her father when she came with Brienne. High Lords and champions of the Stormlands. They were sharing some war stories as she let herself be known.

". . . Lord Robert smashed Ser Quentin Tyrell and the first line but was then repelled by Tarly," Lord Cafferan was saying. "Tarly killed my Lord father that day. I burn to avenge my father. I will challenge Lord Tarly to single combat. Mace or axe or longsword, makes no matter. I will avenge my father."

"Aye," the men roared.

That was then her father found her. "Argella, my dear daughter, come join us."

The lords all bowed their heads. "Father," she said. "I've brought a friend." 

"Lady Brienne," her father said. "Any child of Lord Selwyn is welcome in my heart and hearth."

Some of the knights eyed Brienne in her armour queerly but when they saw the stormy blue eyes of Argella they were quick to avert their gaze with a quick smile. They supped that night on meat and a thick venison stew. Each man got a heel of bread and a chunk of black sausage with the meat and stew as well.

The stories and talks continued late into the night. "We shall repay Tarly in kind for what happened in Ashford. He is in our lands now," said Lord Guyard Morrigan.

"Aye," the Stormlords said in unison.

"With the way shown us by the Lady Storm we will march for victory." Lord Hugh Grandison raised his cup.

"For victory!" The others took up his toast and raised their own cups and tankards. "For Victory."

She could not help but feel astonished at the trust they all had placed in her. The weight of her duty hung hard on her shoulders. Like her father and brother and uncles, she too had a important job now in leading these men to either victory or to doom. to went to one knee before him. And for Argella Baratheon bringing these men out of the treacherous caverns seemed to be a more important duty than marrying the Dragonslayer.

Somewhere ahead Lord Tarly awaited them in the lands around Howling Hill, but he did not have to wait so long as the descendants of the Sea God and the Goddess of the Wind were coming for him.

**__ **

**_Davos_ ** ****

It was still a long way from the Misty Wood to Howling Hill. A couple of days or more. "Would that we were ravens," Lord Ian Mertyns said on the fourth day of the march, the day the rain began to fall. Only a small drizzle at first. Cold and wet, but nothing they could not push through easily.

But it rained again the next day, and the day after, and the day after that. The bright banners of the Stormlords of Stannis Baratheon hung limply in the pikes, sodden with wet. Before long the ground ahead of the column was muddied, making the march slow and twice as long. The wet muddy road concealed stones and twisted roots and deadfalls, turning every step into an adventure. The wind picked up as well, driving the rain to the north.

Lord Stannis' host welcomed the rain, thinking it as a token of victory from the Sea God of the legends in Stormlands. To Davos the smuggler it was just the start of something big. He had spent a great deal of his time in the seas to make out a storm when he saw one. While the drizzle could never be called a storm or even a strong wind, but he knew that those winds and storm were not so far.

On the sixth day of the march, the Baratheon host began to come apart. Whilst the Stormlords and their knights pushed forth in the lands they hail from, the long baggage train with all the mules and horses and wagons and wayns struggled in the muddy road. While the palfreys and destriers led by the men were sure-footed and deft, and the men who rode them were at home in the rain, the mules and garrons in the rear felt it hard with the mud and rain.

The vanguard under Ser Gawen Wylde soon began to outdistance the rest of the host. The knights in the main column under Ser Andrew Estermont was the next to leave the rear. And meanwhile, the wayns and wagons of the baggage train were falling farther and farther behind, so much so that the men of the rear guard under Ser Harrold Rogers constantly chivvying them to keep up a faster pace.

On the seventh day of the march to Howling Hill, the baggage train crossed a five feet wide stream in the Misty Wood with the mud brown water concealing the true depth of the river. When the middle of the baggage train which consisted of the heavy loads of salted beef, pulled forth by mules entered the river, the wheel broke beneath the weight of the wagons as it rolled over the uneven ground of rock, four mules and a couple of teamsters were swallowed up by the water, along with two of the guardsmen sworn to Lord Staedmon who tried to rescue them. Another horse broke his ankle as he slipped in a net of roots hidden in the mud and they had to leave another wagon of supplies since it couldn't get into a narrow road. Stannis ordered for the essentials to be packed onto the other smaller wagons still half of the supplies were left alone in the deserted wagon.

That was the day that Davos first heard the argument boiling in Stannis Baratheon's host about the march.

"We ought to settle until the roads are clear and fit for riding," Ser Corliss Penny said.

"Too late," insisted Ser Richard Horpe, the lean tall knight who was the second-in-command of the center. "Lord Renly has been harassing and pushing Tarly to take a strong position in the Howling Hill to save himself from further ambushes. We ought to make a quick march to Howling Hill and take a vantage position before Randyll Tarly does that."

"The Sea God and the Goddess of the Wind is angry with us," said pious Ser Bonifer Hasty. "Only the Seven can help us win this battle now."

Stannis said nothing. But he heard. Davos was certain of that. He sat atop his horse, listening calmly. When the argument only worsened Lord Stannis had to intervene to get them back in line. He raked them all with a look. "You chatter like magpies, and with less sense. I will have quiet." His eyes fell on Davos. "Ser. Ride with me." He spurred his horse away from his followers.

Davos saw the looks that passed between the lordlings as he rode past them to join the king. These were no up jumped smugglers or onion knights, but proud men from houses whose names were old in honor. Somehow he knew that Robert or Renly would have never chided them in such a fashion. The second born Baratheon had sadly lacked the gift for easy courtesy that both his brothers had.

He eased back to a slow trot when his horse came up beside his lord's. "My lord." Seen at close hand, Stannis looked worse than Davos had realized from afar. His face had grown haggard, and he had dark circles under his eyes. He could see the weight of his duty hanging upon him like a heavy armour.

"A smuggler must be a fair judge of lands and weather," Stannis said. "What do you make of this rain and wind?"

"A gust compared to the storms you and this land has seen," said Davos carefully.

"A gust of disobedience and doubt, I call it. Those knights would have me turn back on my duty in favour of their comforts." He snorted in derision.

"More like they are desperate. Perhaps we ought to maintain a stable march now with the roads hidden and forgotten."

"I would have none of it. Robert has given me orders and it is my duty to obey him. Same as it is the duty of my men to obey me." Stannis brooded on that for a moment. Under the steady clop-clop of hooves, Davos could hear the faint sound of his lord grinding his teeth. "Renly sends word that he's been bleeding Tarly and the advance elements of his host as they made their way through the Misty Wood. Along with Lords Fell, Errol and Buckler, he's ambushed the reachmen enough at different points of the wood cutting down more than a thousand men. He tells me that Tarly is moving north and east towards the Howling Hill as we had planned to keep off further ambushes. Robert will be on his way with that daughter of his and will have no big trouble in doing so. I'll not have it said that I lost the battle for my brother's by failing to do my duty. Great or small we must all do our duty."

"You know these lands better than I do, my lord," Davos said. "You are of this land and so are these lords who are sworn to you. If your men are troubled by this storm then no doubt those reachmen must be troubled more so than you do."

"My lords believe that it will only get worse."

It was. It was going to get worse. Davos could feel it in his bones. But the Onion knight had vowed always to tell his lord the truth and serve him. "I think the weather is a fickle thing, my lord. Even if it turns harsher, I think it is nothing compared to those others the Stormlands has seen."

"Davos, I have missed you sorely," Stannis Baratheon said. "Aye, I have a huge duty to bear on my shoulders. My brother has ordered me to do it for the honour of our House and our very lives. As my men they have the fair share of fulfilling my duty as well. If only they were willing to follow me as you are, we would be there in time to smash Lord Tarly from the slopes of Howling Hill."

"You reproach yourself, my lord. These great Lords still follow you despite the desperate times."

"Aye, it seems like they are." Stannis smiled grimly. "But none as strongly as you do." His lord and master left him alone with just the words and rode on.

When the shout came down the line to make camp for the night, it was no easy thing to warm yourself. The tents were damp and heavy, hard to raise and harder to take down. Stannis Baratheon's host was creeping through the heart of the largest forest in the south, yet dry wood became difficult to find. It was always wet in the Rainwood but now though things were much worse. Every camp saw fewer fires burning, and those that were lit threw off more smoke than heat.

Peasebury, Selmy, Tarnt, and other lords urged the king to make camp until the storm had passed. Stannis would have none of that.

By the ninth day of the continuous rainfall, the outriders of Ser Gawen Wylde finally came into the Lord's pavilion to let Stannis know that they had come upon the Howling Hill only to see the reachmen who had already made their camps in the hill.

"Prepare the battle formations," Stannis said. And it was done. The main cavalry was split into two large divisions to protect their flanks. The left side was given under the command of Ser Andrew Estermont and the right was given to Ser Richard Horpe.

The infantry men were massed behind the cavalry ranks. Armed with spears and pikes and swords and mace and shields, they formed the bulk of the host of Stannis Baratheon. As always Lord Stannis took command of the rear, with a combined force five thousand strong, half mounted knights and half infantry men.

Unlike his lords and knights, Stannis Baratheon did not wear any fancy armour flashing to the eyes. He dressed for battle rather plainly in a mailshirt reinforced with plates on the chest linked over the chain mail. The steel plates on the mailshirt were attached together with large chainmail rings. On the torso the big breastplate extended from his chest to lower waist to protect his chest and abdomen while smaller plates ran down either side from the shoulders to his thighs. The crowned stage of House Baratheon was inlaid on the grey plate over his chest. A plain black leather belt encircled Stannis's waist from which hang his sword and dagger.

A steady rain had started to fall again that morning as the Baratheon men arrayed for battle. They had finally arrived in sight of the Howling Hill, by mid day. Lord Renly had joined his strength with Ser Gawen's vanguard and was waiting for them. They had been slow enough, the rains slowing the march down to a crawl at some days. Now they had finally come only to see the banners of the reachmen flying off from the slopes of the Howling Hill, the red dragon and the golden rose of the Tyrell were the most prominent of them. There were others as well, the huntsman of Tarly and the goldentree of Rowan. Lord Randyll had taken the strong position on the Howling Hill and dug in there on the high ground waiting for the Stormlanders. He sat in a commanding position for several leagues around the hill. 

Davos looked up at the sky and land alike, searching for the dragon. The black beast was no where to be found. Though he could not be relieved at that. Could it be a trap? Has Lord Tarly set up for an ambush of his own. His hands reached for the leather pouch where he had kept his luck along with his fingerbones. By then the steady rainfall had turned into a howling gale. And as he had feared, the storm which had been threatening for days finally struck the Stormlands.

"My lord," Lord Brus Wensington said with a uncertain look at his face. "It's wise if we delay our attack to the next day. The storm and rain might subside. And we don't know if Lord Robert has arrived yet."

Stannis paid him no mind. "Our battles are well drawn up. Our armies are massed into formations. Why wait for tomorrow?" he said. "The rain is blowing from the South into the faces of the Targaryen men on their hills. They will be half blind by the rain. Sound the advance."

Stannis donned his glove and mounted his horse. Trumpents blared and warhorns boomed but they were soon drowned out by the howling winds. Davos followed his lord and stayed by his side in the reserves.

As the host of Stannis Baratheon moved steadily towards the hill in perfect formation despite the raging storm, the reachmen on the slopes were struggling in the blinding rain.

When his vanguard under his brother Renly and Ser Gawen Wylde crept close to the slopes of the hill, Stannis gave his command to attack. Lord Wensington sounded his trumpets. The three wings of heavily armoured knights charged in unison and maintained line as the rode uphil agains the Tarly host. The heavy rain and storm made the enemy archers useless and the knights of Stannis found less opposition as they charged against the ranks of the enemy.

Despite being taken unawares, the reachmen held their lines. Lord Tarly ordered his pikemen to create a indestructible shield wall. Lord Renly and his knights found their opposition against them and fared less than the infantry men. Their charge broke upon the Tarly shields.

Davos could see them turning back to the base of the hill. Lord Renly led them. Once he reached the even ground, he wheeled the knights around and led them back up the slopes for the second charge. The Baratheons didn't have much luck the second time as well. The   
slopes of the Howling Hill were steep and the rains had turned the ground soft and muddy, so the warhorses struggled and foundered, and the charges lost all   
cohesion and momentum.

Thirce more Renly Baratheon and his knights tried to break the ranks of the Tarly men and they were repelled every time. The knights had taken some losses trying to break the shieldwall as well. The cavalry attempt to break the shieldwall was failing. Stannis saw that as well.

"Get them to retreat," he said to Lord Wensington. "Signal Lord Selmy to take our own infantry men for close combat."

Lord Wensington signalled with his trumpets and some of his men sounded their own trumpets as well. From the Hill and the base the trumpets of the fellow Stormlords answered them.

When the sounds had settled, Lord Renly, Ser Andrew and Ser Richard brought their knights back down to the base of the Hill to form up behind the infantry unit which had started to move up the hill.

The pikemen of Stannis Baratheon under the command of Lord Arstan Selmy fared better than the cavalry. The spearmen and the common men-at-arms climbed up the hills without sounding the warhorns or the booming of the drums to announce their arrival. Blinded by the rain, the invaders could not see them climbing until it was too late. Lord Arstan fought in the front lines valiantly with his men but the Tarlys held the lines despite everything they threw at them. The entire shield wall seemed immovable.

That fighting lasted long and Stannis let the infantry men engage while his armoured knights gathered his strength. Stannis Baratheon himself never rested as he watched intently for a opportunity to break through. Davos stood by his side, watching the battle with his lord.

Soon the men from the Stormlands started to push the reachmen back. Blinded by the rain and unused to fighting in such a raging storm, the Tarlys started to give ground. Davos could see the stormlanders advance on certain positions of the hill. Stannis must have seen them as well.

"Rally the knights," he shouted over the storm, drawing his sword. "We ride in one more charge, the last charge. Follow me."

He waited for no one as he kicked his horse to a gallop and charged, sword in hand. Davos followed his lord as ever, his own sword in his left hand. He grabbed the pouch with his fingerbones for luck and followed his liege. The entire cavalry followed behind, Lord Renly racing forth in his shining green armour, Ser Andrew in his jeweled breastplate and Ser Richard Horpe with his moth's head shield. All the knights and warriors under their command followed with a thundering shout as well.

Warhorns souded and trumpets blared and the ranks of the Stormlands infantry split in time to make way for the armoured might of the knights to pass. Lord Stannis had picked the right spot for his charge, as he slammed his warhorse against a half locked shield in the ranks of reachmen the shield wall broke. And in the sixth and final charge of the Lord Stannis and his knights broke through the Tarly center.

No longer did they break through the ranks of men, they soon met with the heavy cavalry of the reach, a sea of armoured horses and knights. Davos found himself in the thick of the battle. He saw Stannis dismounting knights as he rode past them. He made a way for him through the sea of horses with his sword. He was holding two knights at bay when a third one emerged behind him. Davos rode hard to protect his lord. He thought of nothing but to stop the man and he did. Before he could strike down Lord Stannis, he cut off the man's arm sword and all. Before he could gather his mind back from the kill another man slashed at him from the ground. Davos rode him down and turned only to see another knight wearing a golden rings crossed on his armour coming for him. Davos ducked under his sword and slashed at his mount and sent him tumbling down.

The struggling in the Howling Hill didn't give way to either armies. The Stormlords never backed down the slopes and Lord Tarly never gave any ground. Both armies were completely engaged in the battle that when the warhorns sounded from the top of the Hill echoed by rumbling thunder the men stopped the fighting at once to look up at the peak.

There in the peak Davos could see a man holding a sodden golden banner flapping in the wind. As the lightning flashed again and lightened up the whole hill the black stag of House Baratheon could be seen even from far down.

When he saw the antlered god amidst the lightning lit sky, Davos muttered a quiet thanks to the Seven grabbing his pouch of fingerbones. When the thunder rumbled again, Lord Robert rode down with his men heralded by thunder and storms.

"Robert! Robert! Robert!" the roar of the name filled the air and the storm which had fallen to the Targaryens in the Last Storm centuries before had finally arisen.

_**** _

_**Robert** _ ****

In the distance Robert heard another great crash of the thunder. Above the hill, the darkening sky was awash with sheets of blue and violet light. How long has Stannis been fighting? Thankfully his daughter had brought them right in time.

Looking at the battle raging down in the slopes, Robert could only think of one thing. This is what I was made for, he thought. This is for Ned. "Are you ready?" Robert asked his son beside him.

"As ready as I could ever be," Gendry replied. His son put up his polished helm and drew his hammer.

Robert had never been more proud of the boy than he was at the moment. He turned back to see his men pouring out of the caverns. They had stayed hidden in a cavernous hall near the top of the hill to stay away from the eyes of any scouts who might come swooping over the hill making sure that no army's been waiting to ambush them. Robert had placed several groups of men throughout the peak hidden in caves and grottos to alert him once the battle started. He had not thought the storm to leave him stranded and blind from the battle happening down in the slopes. He thanked the gods and the sharp eyed archers from the marches who notified him of the battle happening down.

"Let your magic fly, sweetling," he told his daughter.

Argella had taken command of the band of archers of the marcher lords, Bryce Caron and Gulian Swann. From the safety of the cave they let loose their arrows in the downwind bloodying the men fighting beneath. Twice more Argella and her archers let their arrows loose right with the downwind. The screams of men and horses followed.

When the reachmen had been bloodied enough with the arrows, Robert gave the command. "Form up!" he shouted, wheeling. "Spearhead!" he roared. "Form wedge, we ride. Down the south face for the foes!"

Their charge started in a trot. "Ours is the Fury!" Robert roared and a thunder echoed his words. Roaring and screaming his men followed him downhill.

They were at the gallop by the time they reached halfway to their foes. When a low stone ridge thrust up before him, he kicked his horse and the destrier took him over graceful like a streaming silk. There were riders to his right and left now, his son beside him. They plunged down the hillside at a run, through the falling rain drops and howling winds and the swords of foes. Horses stumbled and rolled, men were swept from their saddles, torches spun through the air, axes and swords hacked at men and beasts alike. Next to him a rider came crashing down in a tangle of steel and leather and screaming horseflesh.

He was in the middle of the flying spearhead with his knights on either side. The Tarlys stood their ground and were ridden down and trampled underhoof. They swept aside the Targaryen spearmen and shattered their ranks. Then there were men all about them, and the battle raged once more.

He vaulted over the horse, landing on the ground below with his golden cloak billowing behind him. It would be difficult to fight on a horse in the slopes of the steep hill. The Tarlys drew back, as men always did at the sight of Robert Baratheon armed and armoured, his face hidden behind his great antlered helm. They were clutching swords and spears and axes, but nine of every ten wore no armor, and the tenth had only a mail shirt or a coat of plates.

"Targaryen!" one man shouted. "For Rhaegar!"

Robert smashed his chest with his hammer, breaking every ribs he had.

From all sides the men converged, men of House Tarly, Rowan, Targaryen and dozen other houses from the Reach and King's Landing. Left and right Robert laid about, knocking out the first man, shattering the temple of the second, breaking the arm at the elbow of the third one and driving the spike if his warhammer through the heart of the last. Another man swung his sword at his head, Robert blocked the grey steel with the handle of his hammer and slammed his boot into man's belly and sent him rolling off the hill. He swung his hammer at the ribcage of the next man and sent him flying. From behind a spear jabbed him between the shoulder blades. Robert was quick enough to move out of harm's way. He spun and slammed his hammer down onto the spearman's head, feeling the impact in his arm as the steel went crunching through helm and hair and skull.

By then his men had overwhelmed their foes. He glimpsed Gendry in his night black armour fighting side by side with Ser Balon Swann and Lord Guyard Morrigen. He saw the lady Brienne cutting down a Targaryen knight. Robert slew another man, and another.

He searched for Tarly, to end this long lasting struggle once and for all and he didn't have to wait long. Randyll Tarly was fighting off a couple of guardsmen of House Musgood. His red surcoat was further darkened with blood and gore. Robert walked to him and Tarly had already dealt with those two guardsmen.

Robert rushed toward him with his hammer. Tarly leapt to meet him with the two handed valyrian steel sword of House Tarly. The greatsword was so sharp and Randyll Tarly knew how to wield it. His first cut was low, and Robert deflected it off the head of his hammer. Tarly swung his sword at his head and Robert moved back and swung his own hammer with a sidearm blow to Tarly's ribs. Randyll Tarly blocked it just in time. Before he could get back from the shock of the blow though, Robert leaned forward and hammered at his armoured thigh. The blow of steel against steel was sweet as a song. Randyll Tarly stumbled to one knee. Robert raised his hammer and put all his weight behind his blow, to smash the Lord of Horn Hill, but the reachman was quick. He spun and swiped at Robert's legs. He leapt back and away from the sharp valyrian steel.

Lord Randyll used that moment to get back up but Robert could see that he was limping. He moved around Lord Tarly, letting him press the attack while deflecting the valyrian steel away from him deftly. He saw the openings in Tarly's attacks as he grew tired and the discomfort Robert had forced upon his leg was slowly wearing him out. He caught the overhead slashed of Lord Tarly with the handle of his hammer and jabbed Tarly's elbow with the head of the hammer. The blow must have hurt Lord Randyll beyond anything he'd experienced in the battle as he dropped his sword and gave up the fight.

By then the loyalists were falling back from the Howling Hill knowing that the battle was lost. The storm which had risen up at the start of the battle finally quieted with their victory. A large number of prisoners were taken from the field, chief among them were both commanders of the Targaryen host, Lord Randyll Tarly and Lord Mathis Rowan.

Robert was glad that he had finally secured his lands from any immediate invasions. Good, he thought as his men were taking the prisoners away from the battlefield, now off to the North to meet Ned's son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was a bit long and consists of different povs. I found it necessary to make the things clear and for the chapter contents to flow smoothly. I hope you guys like it. 
> 
> So Robert came out on top of the second confrontation between him and Randyll Tarly with the help of his brothers, daughter and his lands. Like I said before the terrain will play a huge role in the battle and I hope I did justice. And about Davos Seaworth and as to how he came into the service of Stannis Baratheon, all will be revealed in good time. For now I will say that Davos brought a priceless gift for Stannis from Starfall shortly after the Massacre at Starfall under the cover of onions. More will be revealed as we go further. 
> 
> I hope you guys like this chapter. Leave a comment and let me know what you think. I'd love to hear your thoughts. As always thanks for reading my story and have a nice day.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Jaehaerys** _

"Are you well, boy?" Lord Mormont asked, scowling.

"Well," his raven squawked. "Well."

"I am, my lord," Jaehaerys lied . . . loudly, as if that could make it true. "And you, my lord?"

Mormont frowned. "A dead man tried to kill me. How well could I be?" He scratched under his chin. His shaggy grey beard and the tiredness on his face made him look old and grumpy. "You do not look well. Are you hurt?"

"Not as much as I had thought it to." Jaehaerys pushed his long silver hair singed off in the fire as his clothes took the flames. He had not burned himself as badly as he had thought caught up in the flames. His once long hair had been burned off in the fire and his clothes had burned off beyond repair. But somehow he was unhurt. "The maester says my ribs are bruised, but otherwise I'm as good as I ever was."

"Bruised ribs are nothing. Maester Aemon will patch you up in no time."

"As you say, my lord." It was not the ribs that troubled Jaehaerys; it was the rest of it. The corpse, the cold and dark and bright blue eyes, shining in the night like the sword Andrew Stark had wielded. Jaehaerys thanked the gods that no one saw him writhing on his bed, unable to even close his eyes. And when at last he did sleep, he dreamt, and that was even worse. No amount of Milk of the Poppy Maester Aemon provided saved him from the dreams of blue eyes and black hands.

"Dywen and Hake returned last night," the Old Bear said. "They found no sign of Benjen Stark, no more than the others did."

"I know." Jaehaerys had dragged himself to the common hall to sup with his friends, and the failure of the rangers' search had been all the men had been talking of.

"You know," Mormont grumbled. "How is it that everyone knows everything around here?" He did not seem to expect an answer. "It would seem there were only the two of . . . of those creatures, whatever they were, I will not call them men. And thank the gods for that. Any more and . . . well, that doesn't bear thinking of. There will be more, though. I can feel it in these old bones of mine, and Maester Aemon agrees. The cold winds are rising. Summer is at an end, and a winter is coming such as this world has never seen."

Winter is coming. The Stark words had never been heard for decades now, yet now with the return of his cousin his words sounded so grim or ominous. Needless to say the two dead had proved more than enough to the Night's Watch. As soon as the truth about Othor was reached, the black brothers cut the cold dead body of Jafer Flowers but not before it slew a couple of men.

"Corn," the raven was crying. "Corn, corn."

"Oh, be quiet," the Old Bear told it. He looked down at Jae and eyed his belt and the absence of his sword. "I see that the fire ruined your sword."

It had. Jaehaerys had taken the ruined blade back to the armourer to fix it only to learn that it had gotten bad beyond any repair. "Aye," he replied the Lord Commander.

"Here." Lord Mormont laid a large sword in a black metal scabbard banded with silver on the table between them.

Jaehaerys hesitated. He had no idea what Lord Mormont meant. "My lord?"

"The fire you caused melted the silver off the pommel and burnt the crossguard and grip. Well, dry leather and old wood, what could you expect? The blade, now . . . you'd need a fire a hundred times as hot to harm the blade." Mormont shoved the scabbard across the rough oak planks towards him. "I had the rest made anew. Take it."

"Take it," echoed his raven, preening. "Take it, take it."

Hesitantly, Jaehaerys took the sword in hand. He pulled the sword from its scabbard carefully and raised it level with his eyes.

The pommel was a hunk of garnet carved into the likeness of a roaring dragon's head. For a moment Jaehaerys could almost see Viserion in its face. The Prince found that he still missed him. Somehow he found solace in the carved head believing that he was still with him.

The grip of the sword was soft leather, new and black. The blade itself was a good half foot longer than those normal longswords most people used, tapered to thrust as well as slash, with three fullers deeply incised in the metal. The sword actually seemed lighter than the blades he had wielded before. The blade was exquisitely balanced. The edges glimmered faintly as they kissed the light. When he turned it sideways, he could see the ripples in the dark steel where the metal had been folded back on itself again and again. "This is Valyrian steel, my lord," he said wonderingly. He knew enough about valyrian steel to identify it out. He knew the look, the feel.

"It is valyrian steel," the Old Bear told him. "It was my father's sword, and his father's before him. The Mormonts have carried it for five centuries. I wielded it in my day and passed it on to my son when I took the black."

He is giving me his son's sword. Jaehaerys could scarcely believe it. He had met Ser Jorah in King's Landing a couple of times. The man had left his home and family in fear of King Eddard after selling some prisoners from the dungeons of Bear Island into slavery. From what little he had known of Jorah Mormont, Jaehaerys found him likeable. "Your son - "

"My son brought dishonour to House Mormont, but at least he had the grace to leave the sword behind when he fled. My sister returned it to my keeping, but the very sight of it reminded me of Jorah's shame, so I put it aside and thought no more of it until we found it in the ashes of my bedchamber. The original pommel was a bear's head, silver, yet so worn its features were all but indistinguishable. For you, I thought a dragon more apt. One of our builders is a fair stonecarver."

"My lord, you honour me, but - "

"Spare me your but's, boy," Lord Mormont interrupted. "I would not be sitting here were it not for you and that beast of yours. You fought bravely . . . and more to the point, you thought quickly. Fire! Yes, damn it. We ought to have known. We ought to have remembered. The Long Night has come before. Oh, eight thousand years is a good while, to be sure . . . yet if the Night's Watch does not remember, who will?"

"Who will," chimed the talkative raven. "Who will."

Truly, the gods had heard Jae's prayer that night; the fire he had used had caught in the dead man's clothing and consumed him as if his flesh were candle wax and his bones old dry wood. He had only to close his eyes to see the thing staggering across the solar, crashing against the furniture and flailing at the flames. It was the face that haunted him most; surrounded by the fire, hair blazing like dry straw, the dead flesh melting away and sloughing off its skull to reveal the gleam of bone beneath.

Whatever demonic force moved Othor had been driven out by the flames; the twisted thing they had found in the ashes had been no more than cooked meat and charred bone.

"A sword's small payment for a life," Mormont concluded. "Take it, I'll hear no more of it, is that understood?"

"Yes, my lord." The soft leather gave beneath his fingers, as if the sword were molding itself to his grip already. He knew he should be honoured, and he was, and yet . . .

He is not my father. The thought leapt unbidden to Jaehaerys' mind. It was his Lord father he had wanted to impress, to make him proud. Yet he could scarcely tell Lord Mormont that it was another man's acknowledgment he wanted . . .

"I want no courtesies either," Mormont said, "so thank me no thanks. Honour the steel with deeds, not words."

Jaehaerys nodded. "Does it have a name, my lord?"

"It did, once. Longclaw, it was called."

"Claw," the raven cried. "Claw."

"Longclaw is an apt name." Jaehaerys tried a practice cut. The sword seemed more familiar in his hands than it actually was. It was almost as if he had wielded it for a long time. "Dragons have claws, as much as bears."

The Old Bear seemed pleased by that. "I suppose they do. You'll have to work more at your two-handed strikes. The blade can be used more effectively that way."

Jae knew about that. His cousin had fought that way. Where Jaehaerys had been taught to fight with a sword in one hand and the shield in the other, Andrew Stark had fought with just his sword, either in a one handed grip or with two hands. Jaehaerys was swift to see the effectiveness of his style. He may have been a failure and a disappointment but he was no stupid. He learns from his lessons.

"Ser Endrew can show you some moves, when your burns have healed." Mormont finished.

"Ser Endrew?" Jaehaerys did not know the name.

"Ser Endrew Tarth, a good man. He's on his way from the ShadowTower to assume the duties of master-at-arms. Ser Alliser Thorne left yestermorn for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea."

Jaehaerys lowered the sword. "Why?" he asked, stupidly.

Mormont snorted. "Because I sent him, why do you think? He's taking the hand of the demon with him. I have commanded him to take ship to King's Landing and lay it before your father."

"My lord," he asked hesitantly, "it's said there was a bird last night . . . "

"There was. What of it?"

"I had hoped for some word of my family."

"Family," taunted the old raven, bobbing its head as it walked across Mormont's shoulders. "Family."

The Lord Commander reached up to pinch its beak shut, but the raven hopped up on his head, fluttered its wings, and flew across the chamber to light above a window. "Grief and noise," Mormont grumbled. "That's all they're good for, ravens. Why I put up with that pestilential bird . . . if the letter brought word of your family, do you think I would keep it from you. The message concerned Winterfell. Maester Walys has sent word of his King's march to Riverrun to your uncle, assuring him that nothing bad has happened to the King. Little does he know for he should have written this letter to his King telling him to worry about his uncle." Mormont snorted. "We have white shadows in the woods and unquiet dead stalking our halls, and the War of the Wolf rips apart the Seven Kingdoms."

Benjen Stark had been the Old Bear's best hope to turn the King in the North towards the evil threat from the North. Jaehaerys could have calmed his father then and peace could have been won. His father would have listened to him, listened to the threat of the Others. He had always told them of it, raised and trained them for it. With Benjen Stark lost, what chance was there to bring the Dragonslayer back? "What of war, my lord? My brother?"

"Your brother has not fought Andrew Stark yet, if that's what you're asking." He said shrugging impatiently. "Perhaps your royal father's keeping him back in the Red Keep. There's been no raven from the Red Keep ever since the war started. I fear we count for less than nothing in King's Landing now that there's a open rebellion in the realm. These Kings tell us what they want us to know, and that's little enough."

And you tell me what you want me to know, and that's less, Jaehaerys thought resentfully. His brother Aegon had already fought in a battle and won a great victory at Stoney Sept, yet no word of that had been breathed to him . . . save by Samwell Tarly, who'd read the letter to Maester Aemon and whispered its contents to Jaehaerys that night in secret, all the time saying how he shouldn't. Doubtless they thought this war was none of his concern for he was a brother of the Night's Watch now. It troubled him more than he could say. Aegon was fighting and winning and he had fought and lost. No matter how often Jaehaerys told himself that his place was here now, with his new brothers on the Wall, he still felt craven. A failure, a loser for failing his father and a nobody who shamed his father like that.

Mormont noted his silence. "Are you hoping to flee and join your brother in war perhaps. Is that it? Is that your hope, boy?"

"He is my brother," he answered, sullen. "It is my family."

"And no one denies it," Mormont said at once. "Your brother is in the field with an army and a dragon. You father has a score of poweful allies around him and his sister with him. Why do you imagine that they need your help?"

"I..." Jaehaerys was at a loss for words. Mormont had the right. Ever since he came to the Night's Watch, no letter came to him from his family. Nothing, that even bear a word asking how he was. His older brother was the only one to send a letter, assuring him that he would come soon enough. And that had been moons before, before he became a man of the Night's Watch. If Aegon needed help, he was sure to ask, and his father... King Rhaegar would not even bother about it. Moreover, he didn't know what help he could be of to any of them. He didn't have a dragon or an army, just a sword and the name Targaryen.

"Even if you run off in the middle of the night, the moment you cross the New Gift, you'd find yourself in the hands of a northman. And this time it wouldn't end good for you. The North remembers and they wouldn't have forgotten you or your royal father." The Old Bear sighed. "You are not the only one touched by this war. Like as not, my sister is marching in Andrew Stark's host, her and those daughters of hers, same as she once did in his father's host before him. Maege is a hoary old snark, stubborn, short-tempered, and willful. Truth be told, I can hardly stand to be around the wretched woman, but that does not mean my love for her is any less than the love you bear your half sisters." Frowning, Mormont leaned against his chair. "Or perhaps it does. Be that as it may, I'd still grieve if she were slain, yet you don't see me running off. Your uncle Benjen was still a fairly young man when his brother and his entire family was murdered in the south. Never once did I worry about him or place a guard on him on fear of him leaving his post. We said the words, just as you did. Our place is here . . . where is yours, boy?"

Jaehaerys desperately wanted to say that his place was with his family, but the words wouldn't come out. "I don't know," he said.

"I do," said Lord Commander Mormont. "The cold winds are rising. Beyond the Wall, The cold winds are rising. Cotter Pyke writes of vast herds of elk, streaming south and east toward the sea, and mammoths as well. Quorin Halfhand took a captive in the depths of the Gorge, and the man swears that Mance Rayder is massing all his people in some new, secret stronghold he's found, to what end the gods only know. Do you think your uncle Benjen was the only ranger we've lost this past year?"

"No," Jaehaerys said. There had been others. Too many.

"We've seen the dead come back, you and me, and it's not something I care to see again," the old man said. "Do you think your family's war is more important than ours?"

Jaehaerys stood silent. The raven flapped its wings at him. "War, war, war, war," it sang.

"It's not," Mormont answered him. "Gods save us, boy, you're not blind and you're not stupid. When dead men come hunting in the night, do you think it matters who sits the Iron Throne?"

"No." Jae had not thought of it that way.

"Your lord father always talked about the dead, boy," Lord Mormont said. "Doubtless he raised you that way as well. I think you were meant to be here, and I want you with us when we go beyond the Wall."

His words sent a chill of excitement down Jae's back. "Beyond the Wall?"

"You heard me. I mean to find Ben Stark, alive or dead." He stood up from the chair. "I will not sit here meekly and wait for the snows and the ice winds. We must know what is happening. This time the Night's Watch will ride in force, against the King-beyond-the-Wall, the Others, and anything else that may be out there. I mean to command them myself." He pointed his forefinger at Jaehaerys. "By custom, the Lord Commander's steward is his squire as well . . . but I do not care to wake every dawn wondering if you've run off again. So I will have an answer from you, and I will have it now. Are you a brother of the Night's Watch . . . or only a pompous prince who wants to play at war?"

Jaehaerys straightened himself and took a long deep breath. This is what my destiny is, he thought remembering his father's words. Lord Mormont has the truth of it. This is my place. I am meant to be here. I am a brother of the Night's Watch. "I am . . . yours, my lord. Your man. I swear it. I will not run again."

With that he muttered a quick apology for deserting his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said Jaehaerys' storyline will mostly follow canon Jon's storyline. I'm actually moulding and making that as the redemption arc. I hope you guys like it. Leave a comment and let me know what you think. Thanks for reading my story and Good luck.


	13. Chapter 13

_**Andrew** _

The Lord of Riverrun was a big man; tall and broad even in that age. His face was hard and his hair and beard had gone grey. Lord Hoster Tully looked worn and tired, battered by battle and haggard from strain. His neck was bandaged where he had taken a wound. His breastplate was scratched and dented from battle, his blue-and-red cloak stained by blood and smoke. He waited for Andrew at the yard of his castle. His lords waited with him and his guards as well. From the sandstone walls of the castle, soldiers and servants shouted down his name, and his father's, and "Winterfell!" King Eddard was well known in Riverrun but his son was not. He was pretty much sure that most of them was here only to see if he was real, to see if the Legend of the Born King was indeed true. 

From every rampart waved the banner of House Tully: a leaping trout, silver, against a rippling blue-and-red field. Lord Hoster was flanked by his son and heir. Ser Edmure Tully was a stocky young man with a shaggy head of auburn hair and a fiery beard. At his side stood the Lord Tytos Blackwood, a hard pike of a man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper whiskers and a hook nose. His bright yellow armor was inlaid with jet in elaborate vine-and-leaf patterns, and a cloak sewn from raven feathers draped his thin shoulders. It had been Lord Tytos who led the sortie that broke the back of Garlan Tyrell's shieldwall.

Andrew cantered past the smallfolk and guards gathered to see him as he rode down his column on his way back inside Riverrun. The Greatjon flanked him on the right while Karstark followed him on the right. Ser Beric and his brotherhood followed him next and then his bannermen. Behind them came the men who'd put the castle under siege a week ago, all bound in chains and barred in the wagons. 

"Lord Hoster," Andrew said. He dismounted and his men all followed after him. 

"King Andrew," Lord Hoster replied. 

Three men quickly came and took the horses away. When Ghost bounded out beside him, one of them dropped the reigns of his horse and lurched back, stumbling and sitting down abruptly in the yard. The horse whinnied and reared. The others laughed, and the man got a sheepish look on his face. Andrew quickly caught the reigns and calmed down the horse, rubbing its long neck. He gave the reigns up to the man when he got up and patted him on the back, smiling.

"Thank you for coming to our rescue, my lord," the Lord of Riverrun said. "Riverrun is in your debt."

Andrew smiled at the man. "There's no need for that, my lord," he replied. "My father always said that we find true friends in our battlefield. So thank you for declaring for me."

Hoster Tully had forsaken Rhaegar the moment the tales of his arrival had started to spread from Winterfell. And it was for that reason the King on the Iron Throne had the Riverlands burned. He was the reason they were being held up in siege the first place and Andrew had not wanted to leave them to the Targaryen mercy. His father had never left an ally behind, so he shall not do so as well. 

"I heard that Lord Arryn was already here, my Lord," Andrew continued while his men started bringing in the prisoners they had taken in the battle. 

"Jon Arryn is here, yes," Hoster Tully replied. "We've sent boats to ferry them across the river to Riverrun. They will be here soon."

Andrew nodded. 

The Lord of Riverrun eyed him once again, a surprised look passing over his hard features. "I didn't know your father as well as I knew your uncle or grandfather," he said, "but you do resemble him a lot." 

"I hear that a lot," Andrew chuckled. "And I've brought some of your bannermen who couldn't make it in time to Riverrun when you called your banners." He turned around towards the men who had followed him. "Lord Jason and Ser Stevron," Andrew called and the two men stepped forward and bowed their heads to their liege lord. 

"My lord," said Lord Jason Mallister, "we tried to come as soon as we got your letter. But the journey wasn't an easy one."

"Let that go, Jason," Lord Tully said with a smile. "You're here now. That's all that matters now."

Lord Tully's smile quickly faded when he saw Ser Stevron Frey. "Ser Stevron," he said curtly. "I do not see your Lord father here." 

It was more of a statement than a question. Andrew watched as Ser Stevron looked at him for any support and then turned away to face Lord Hoster while Andrew nodded. 

"The fighting days of my father is done, my lord," Stevron Frey said to Hoster Tully. "But he's sent his men with his grace under my command."

"Well, at least you came," Hoster Tully said. 

"Do you have any word on Lord Robert?" Andrew asked. 

Lord Hoster shook his head, frowning. "We have had no bird from Storm's End after the fall of Griffin's Roost," he said. "He would already be on his way here, I'm sure."

Andrew nodded wondering if that was the truth of it. He did not know where Robert or his army was or if they were even coming North. He just hoped that nothing bad has happened to them. The Targaryen dragons still circled the sky and as long as they did so, none of his friends and allies are safe. 

A man ran across the yard and stopped before them. "Lord Arryn is coming, my lord."

Hoster Tully nodded. "Lord Jon Arryn is here," he told Andrew. "Would you accompany me in receiving him, my Lord?"

"Of course," Andrew said at once. "Lead the way."

The northmen and the riverlords joined after that as Andrew and Lord Hoster walked together before them. Past friendships grew back and the day filled with laughter and tales of old battles and new. 

"Here this way, your grace." Lord Hoster escorted him from the yard and across a hallway. As they pushed through a door between two guardsmen in fish-crest helms, the Lord of Riverrun asked, "When I heard word of you from the North, I had thought it to be a jape. Even now that you're standing before me, I could scarce believe my eyes. How did you escape from the dragon's claws?"

Andrew looked at him with a sad smile. "This life is given to us by our parents, isn't it? In my case, they gave life for me twice, even at the cost of their own."

Lord Hoster's look was somber. "We tried so hard to get the bodies back," he said. "Rhaegar would never have any of it."

A blind rage filled him as he heard it again. His father would never have condemned even his bitter enemy to such fate. "And he shall pay for it," he said. "I will make him pay for it."

They climbed the spiral stair in silence.

The keep was three-sided as well, like Riverrun itself. They crossed the lower bailey and down the water stair which brought them to the river. Boats large and small were tied up all around the stairs, secured to iron rings set in the stone.

They waited there for a moment and a few boats soon came around the corner, crossing the Tumblestone. They came closer slowly, the oars of the small boats cutting the water gracefully. 

Andrew could see the people on the boat as they came closer. Lord Jon Arryn sat in the bow with a young man who seemed to be his son and heir. He easily recognized Lord Arryn though. With his white hair and beard salted grey, the Lord of the Eyrie still looked strong and proud. His very bearing commanded respect. His hand was resting on his sword on his lap as the rowers pulled at their oars. Ser Brynden Tully was with him along with Lord Yohn Royce. He remembered all of them from his childhood, all of them friends and allies of his father.

They shot down the Tumblestone. The strong current pushed them past the looming WheelTower. The splash and rumble of the great waterwheel echoed the sound of the oars splashing and creaking. The banners of House Arryn flew from the tip of the lances the guards in the stern of the boats.

Below the WheelTower, they made a wide turn and knifed through the churning water. The oarsmen put their backs into it. The boats passed under the wide arch of the Water Gate and came into the full view of Andrew and his companions. He heard the creak of heavy chains as the Tully men winched the great iron portcullis upward. It rose slowly as the boats approached, and Andrew saw that the lower half of it was red with rust. The bottom foot dripped brown mud on the men on the boats as they passed underneath, the barbed spikes mere inches above the heads of the guardsmen who stood on the boat. 

They passed beneath the arch and under the walls. Slowly the oarsmen brought the boats to the stairs and the men started to climb out. 

Andrew walked down the steps along with Lord Hoster to welcome them. 

"Lord Arryn, it's always good to see you my lord," Hoster Tully said and embraced the man. Andrew let the old friends make their greetings and waited.

"Thank you for riding to our rescue," the Lord of Riverrun said when they pulled away. 

"It is my duty to help my friends and family Lord Hoster," Jon Arryn said and then eyed Andrew near Hoster Tully. Arryn froze at once and then looked at him with wide eyes. "Ned," he murmured hoarsely but then got his senses back. "Forgive me, my Lord, but you do look like your father a lot." 

Andrew smiled at the man and extended his arm out but Lord Arryn hugged him fiercely. "I hope you remember me, Andrew," he said when they pulled away. "You were only a little boy in your mother's arms when I last saw you."

"I remember you very well, Lord Arryn," Andrew said at once. "You were like a father to my father and you brought gifts for me every time you came to Winterfell." He meant what he said. He remembered most of the men. Men who were friends of his father. He'd seen most of them when he had been a little boy, but he couldn't remember all of them. Those who had been a family to Eddard Stark, he remembered them very well. 

Lord Arryn smiled sadly and placed his hand on his shoulder. He had deep blue eyes and shoulder length hair which had turned white. "You don't know how much it gladdens me to see that you're alive," Jon Arryn said. "That some part of Ned is still alive."

Andrew idly remembered the words of Maester Walys. The old maester had told him how his mother had saved him for a purpose. Perhaps this is why I'm here now, even after the deaths of his mother and father. Perhaps this is why Queen Ashara had saved him. Maybe he is here to take on their legacy. He still had their memory and the family they had left for him. Despite everything happened, Andrew Stark hadn't lost his family like he had thought. 

"Aye, we all are," said Lord Yohn Royce. "Your father was a good man, your grace. Your mother as well. We haven't forgotten them."

"Thank you, my lord," Andrew said. He looked at the man and nodded once. Lord Yohn was wearing his broze armour engraved with runes. His mother once told him that the armour protected the wearer from getting hurt. Andrew remembered asking her for a similar armour then. Smiling, Ashara Dayne had promised him to get him one. He grew sad as the memory crept in. 

Beside him Lord Hoster embraced his brother and grandson. "I feared you would not come, Brynden," he told Brynden Tully. 

"Black fish or no, I am still a Tully," Brynden Tully said, smiling. He had a craggy face, deeply lined and windburnt beneath a shock of stiff grey hair, but Andrew could still see the great knight his father had told him about. 

"I ought to never forget that." Lord Hoster then eyed at his grandson and laughed. "Robert," he said. "You have made your grandfather proud."

"I'm pleased to have done so my lord," Robert Arryn said. 

"I watched it all from my balcony," Hoster Tully smiled. "The fires, the waves of steel and everything."

"We had some help."

"Of course," Tully said. "I did see King Andrew and his men as well."

Andrew nodded. He then turned towards Lord Arryn. "So Lord Arryn, do any of my men ride with you to Riverrun?" He asked. "I sent part of my army to hold the Crossroads Ford for you."

"Aye, they ride with us," Lord Jon said. "We found them in the Crossroads fighting the Targaryens for the command of the Trident. Though by the Seven we arrived in time to help them. They are riding with my knights across the river as we speak, your Grace." 

Andrew nodded wondering if his men were all safe, more importantly if his friend Asher was safe. Andrew Stark had lost a lot in his life and he was not willing to lose his friend as well. He hoped Asher was safe. 

"Perhaps we ought to take the conversation inside, my lords," Lord Hoster suggested. 

Andrew wanted to wait for his men to finally get back to him. But he knew that there were more pressing matters at hand to discuss about. The war was still not over and there might a dragon prowling nearby. He could get back to them once they reach Riverrun. 

He nodded. Hoster Tully lead the way and Lord Jon Arryn fell in beside him. Andrew followed them as they walked back to the castle. As they left the Water Stair most of the ships had already made it to the stairs and the lords of the Vale started to sought out their friends from the North and the Riverlands. 

"I did not see Tyrell anywhere last night," said Lord Jon Arryn as they passed through the guards at the door guarding Hoster Tully's solar. "Did we manage to catch him?"

Lord Hoster's solar was triangular as well, with a stone balcony that jutted out to the east like the prow of some great sandstone ship. From there the lord of the castle could look down on his walls and battlements, and beyond, to where the waters met.

The brazier in Lord Tully's solar filled the room with a ruddy heat. Lord Hoster called for a guard. "Wine for His grace and Lord Arryn." The guard bowed and left to do the bidding of his lord.

"Garlan Tyrell has been given a cell in the dungeons," Hoster Tully turned to Lord Arryn. "He would be settling in his new rooms as of now."

"Good," Lord Arryn said. "He might make a valuable hostage." He placed his helm on the table before him and pushed his fingers through his hair where the weight of the steel had crushed it down. "We've heard word of Oldtown on our way here. Lord Leyton has declared for his granddaughter's family."

"Lord Leyton?" Andrew asked surprised. He had almost forgotten about the family he had at Oldtown. His mother's family. Lord Leyton Hightower was his mother's grandfather and his mother had told him a lot of stories about her mother and Oldtown. 

Andrew hadn't even known if Lord Leyton was alive. He was glad to know that he was alive though. And he had declared for him, for a grandson he barely knew. The thought made him smile, knowing that his family had not been forgotten. As always though the graver thoughts crept in. "Has there been a battle in Oldtown?"

"Aye," Lord Arryn admitted. "The Royal fleet is no more, thanks to the Hightowers. Rhaegar actually got what he served your father in Starfall."

The royal fleet is destroyed. That might give them the edge in the war. Without a fleet to defend his seas, Andrew could effectively use his own fleet to strike deep at Dragonstone or King's Landing itself. He might want to send a letter to Lord Manderly to take the entire northern fleet to the seas, along with the Quiet Wolf and the Lady of the Stars. The loss of the royal fleet would serve him well.

"With the power of Oldtown behind us, we might keep Mace Tyrell and his reachmen busy in the Reach." Lord Jon's gaze turned towards Andrew's face. "Were you the one to attack Rhaegar in Braavos, Andrew?"

"It was me," Andrew admitted. 

Jon Arryn frowned. "Did you know that you killed Tywin Lannister's son?" 

Andrew knew that. He still remembered the Kingsguard knight he had fought that day in Braavos. He had been Joy's cousin. Joy had told him about the knight. Andrew remembered her telling him the name. Was it James... or Gwayne? Jaime, yes, it was Jaime, Jaime Lannister. "I never knew who that was when he fought me," Andrew said. Even if he had known who he were, it wouldn't have changed a thing though. But he left that unsaid. 

Lord Jon sighed. "If Tywin Lannister knows that you killed his precious heir, I would not be so hopeful about getting his support further in the war."

"Won't he support us, Jon?" Hoster Tully asked. "He is tied to Robert Baratheon. If Lord Robert joins us then it brings Lord Tywin as well."

Jon Arryn frowned and walked across the room. "Tywin is not that kind of a man," he said. "I've wrote to him in a way... that would make him declare for us but I don't know for how long."

A servant brought the wine for them, serving them on a silver platter. Andrew took a cup. "I heard that there was a battle at Stoney Sept," he said sipping the wine. 

Lord Hoster shrugged. "More like the battle of burning sept. Lord Tywin's forces tried to take Stoney Sept and block the way for Aegon Targaryen's forces from getting further into the Riverlands." Lord Hoster leaned forward and rested his hands on the table. "The battle was a bloody affair people say, men from both armies fighting from everywhere. It was only when the prince of Dragonstone arrived on his dragon and burned everything to the ground, the battle ended. Thanks to the Lannisters' intervention, we're not having a dragon flying over Riverrun."

"Tywin Lannister will keep the boy and his dragon busy," Jon Arryn said. "We only have to help him as long as Robert arrives."

"So what we wait until Lord Robert arrives?" Hoster Tully poured himself some wine from the flagon.

"Do you have a better idea, my lord?" Lord Arryn said. "We can't face the dragons on the field."

The dragons, thought Andrew. He knew that the beasts would be the biggest problem they would face. Sooner or later they would come to face against them and when that happens it would be nothing but blood and fire waiting for them. The thought sent a chill down his back. Andrew could still remember the destruction Jaehaerys' dragon had done to Winterfell. He had to take them out, somehow. 

"Giving them time will give them the opportunity to regroup, Jon," said Hoster Tully. "We ought to strike them hard and fast, while they are still coping with their losses."

"And what do you propose we do when the Targaryens let loose their dragons? We ought to take them down, Hoster. If we could do that, then the war is good as done."

"Lord Arryn is right," said Andrew. "I have seen what those beasts can do. It's better to find a way to take them out of the skies before you march against them."

"But how to do it anyway?"

Jon Arryn frowned. "I don't know." He eyed deeply into his cup, looking at the red depths of the wine as if the answer was there. "But we will work out something."

We should, thought Andrew. And quickly as well. He didn't know how long they would be able to evade the dragons. Andrew doubted they could do it for so long. When they do, they should be prepared though. 

A knock at the door interrupted them. 

"Come in," Lord Hoster said and a guard opened the door and entered the solar. 

"The rest of the Arryn army is here, my lord," the guard said. 

"Very well," Lord Hoster said. "We'll be there." 

The guard bowed and left. 

"So we wait for Lord Robert here?" Tully asked after the guard left. 

"Yes," Jon Arryn answered. "We keep the dragons busy and then link up with Robert. Once he is here, when get done with the wedding and make the further plans."

"The wedding?" Hoster Tully asked, confused. 

Andrew know full well which wedding Lord Arryn was talking about. The thought of Joy pressed hard on his heart. He still dreamed of her, her beautiful face, her gleaming golden hair and the soft green eyes. Sometimes his dreams were so vivid that he felt her beside him. He could hear her voice, feel her touch and even her kisses and the warmth of her body until he wakes up in the dark, cold and alone. 

He turned to see Jon Arryn eyeing him with his blue eyes. He could see the old man's sharp eyes searching his face for any doubt or disappointment that he might show there. "I'll honour my father's word," Andrew said at last. He was his father's son and he will honour his oaths. 

"I know this might be hard for you," Lord Arryn said placing his hand on his shoulder, "but this marriage would help us greatly."

Andrew sighed and nodded. 

"Very well then," Hoster Tully said. "Shall we go receive our friends?"

With that they left the solar to meet with the Knights of the Vale and Asher. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Jon Arryn has been exchanging letters with Tywin Lannister. Will Tywin support Andrew if he knows that Andrew Stark killed his son? The allies are making plans to take out the dragons but its not going to be easy. 
> 
> I hope you guys liked this chapter. Leave a comment and let me know what you guys think. Your comments inspire me to write more and write quickly. Thanks for reading my story and have a good day.


	14. Chapter 14

_**Jorah** _

The cell was warmer than any cell had the right to be. It was dark, yes. Flickering orange light fell through the ancient iron bars from the torch in the sconce on the wall outside, but the back half of the cell remained drenched in gloom. It was dank as well, as might be expected on the Hightower, where the sea was never far. And there were rats, as many as any dungeon could expect to have and a few more besides.

But Jorah could not complain of chill. The smooth stony passages beneath the great mass of Hightower were always warm, and Jorah had often heard it said how the Hightower was built by magic and the fortress was made with the help of the mazemakers or by the Deep Ones. He was well below the castle, he judged, and the wall of his cell often felt warm to his touch when he pressed a palm against it. Perhaps the old tales were true, and the Hightower was built with true magic. 

He was sick when they first brought him here. The cough that had plagued him since the battle grew worse, and a fever took hold of him as well. His lips broke with blood blisters, and the warmth of the cell did not stop his shivering. I will not linger long, he remembered thinking. I will die soon, here in the dark and my dishonour and shame with me. 

Jorah soon found that he was wrong about that, as about so much else. Dimly he remembered gentle hands and a firm voice, and young Maester Torbett looking down on him. He was given hot garlic broth to drink, and milk of the poppy to take away his aches and shivers. The poppy made him sleep and while he slept they leeched him to drain off the bad blood. Or so he surmised, by the leech marks on his arms when he woke. Before very long the coughing stopped, the blisters vanished, and his broth had chunks of whitefish in it, and carrots and onions as well. And one day he realized that he felt stronger than he had since Balerion shattered beneath him and flung him in the river.

He had two gaolers to tend him. One was broad and squat, with thick shoulders and huge strong hands. He wore a leather brigantine dotted with iron studs, and once a day brought Jorah a bowl of oaten porridge. Sometimes he sweetened it with honey or poured in a bit of milk. The other gaoler was older, lean and tall, with greasy unwashed hair and rough skin. He wore a doublet of blue velvet with six yellow flowers worked upon the breast in bright yellow thread. He would bring Jorah plates of meat and mash, or fish stew, and once even half a lamprey pie. The lamprey was so rich he could not keep it down, but even so, it was a rare treat for a prisoner in a dungeon. But he was no normal prisoner, he knew. He was the goodson of Lord Leyton Hightower and hence the family to the Hightowers. 

Neither sun nor moon shone in the dungeons; no windows pierced the thick stone walls. The only way to tell day from night was by his gaolers. Neither man would speak to him, though he knew they were no mutes; sometimes he heard them exchange a few brusque words as the watch was changing. They would not even tell him their names, so he gave them names of his own. The short one in the brigantine he called Porridge, the tall, lean one in the colors of House Cuy, he called as Lamprey, for the pie. He marked the passage of days by the meals they brought, and by the changing of the torches in the sconce outside his cell.

A man grows lonely in the dark, and hungers for the sound of a human voice. Jorah would talk to the gaolers whenever they came to his cell, whether to bring him food or change his slops pail. He knew they would be deaf to pleas for freedom or mercy; instead he asked them questions, hoping perhaps one day one might answer. "What news of the war?" he asked, and "Has there been any battle?" He asked after the Princess Daenerys, and what was the news from King's Landing. "What is the weather like?" he asked, and "Have the autumn storms begun yet? Do ships still sail the Sunset sea?" Were there anyone coming her to rescue them? 

It made no matter what he asked; they never answered, though sometimes Porridge gave him a look, and for half a heartbeat Jorah would think that he was about to speak. With Lamprey there was not even that much. I am not a man to him, he thought, only a stone that eats and shits and speaks. He decided after a while that he liked Porridge much the better. Porridge at least seemed to know he was alive, and there was a queer sort of kindness to the man. Once he had heard the man talking to the rats as if they were children. Perhaps he is as lonely as me as well. 

They do not mean to let me die, he realized. If they had, he would have met the headsman's axe or a noose by now. They are keeping me alive, for some purpose of their own. Perhaps they are keeping me alive because I'm Lord Leyton's goodson. But then again I had lost that privilege as well the moment I lost his daughter. He wondered how long will Lord Leyton keep him alive. With every passing day the day of his death might actually be arriving. I should have given myself to the sea, Jorah thought as he sat staring at the torch beyond the bars. I could not even get the honour of being a loyal and brave man. I was so afraid of death and losing Daenerys that I choose to live as a traitor and treason rather than fighting for the king who protected me and who raised me above my station. Jorah couldn't help but feel ashamed at it. 

Then one night as he was finishing his supper, Jorah felt a strange silence in the cell around him. He waited to see what might be happening. Moments later the rattle of the cell door opening was heard. Jorah glanced up thinking that Porridge had come again to take the plates back but he met with Lord Leyton Hightower himself, dressed in his slashed velvet doublet and the Mad Maid beside her, dressed in dark black robes with a bright, burning torch in her hand. "My lord," he said, suddenly surprised at his visit, wondering what was the reason for it.

"Ser Jorah" Malora Hightower replied, calmly as if the two of them had met on a stair or in the yard, and were exchanging polite greetings. "Are you well?"

"Better than I was."

"Do you lack for anything?"

"I am well content, my lady." He pushed the bowl aside and stood. "Have you come to kill me?"

Her strange mismatched eyes studied him from head to heel. "This is a bad place, is it not? A dark place, and foul. The good sun does not shine here, nor the bright moon." She lifted a hand toward the torch in the wall sconce. "This is all that stands between you and the darkness, Ser. This little fire, this little light. Shall I put it out?"

"No." He stood up and moved toward them. "Please." He did not think he could bear that, to be left alone in utter blackness with no one but the rats for company.

The Mad Maid's lips curved upward in a smile. "So you have come to love the fire, it would seem."

"I need the torch." His hands opened and closed. I will not beg her. I will not.

"We are all like this torch, Ser Jorah. All of us have a purpose in life. But like this flame our life is uncertain as well. A drop of water, a gust of evening wind, anything could put it out." She said holding the torch up between them. "But add a drop of oil, it burns with more power. But adding oil or water to it is entirely our choice."

"Yeah," Jorah told her. "And I have made my choice. I have added my flames to that of the dragon's." Perhaps he should have lied, and told her what she wanted to hear. But he had been too tired of the cell and the dark that he couldn't keep his mouth shut. 

Malora Hightower simply laughed at him. "Did you think that would help you in any way? It's only very little time before the dragon's flames overwhelm yours and turns against you and burns you to crisp."

"And you?" Jorah turned his eyes from her to her father, the Lord Leyton. "You called us to your home in the cover of friends and turned against us, your own family."

Lord Leyton sighed. "I did not do anything your King had never done it himself. Did you feel the same way after what he did at Starfall?"

"It was not the same," Jorah said. "Ned Stark was a traitor and a rebel."

"Is that why you had to kill him like a craven." Lord Leyton said, angrily. "Breaking all the oaths you swore and going against the laws and gods."

"Why are you here?" Jorah asked, shaking his head. "I believe it's not to discuss treason and betrayal."

Before Lord Leyton could talk however, the cell door opened and Ser Baelor Hightower entered his cell covered in his silver plate armour. Only his helmet was not in place, showing off his handsome face. The light of his sister's torch shone off his polished armour like a mirror. The burning High Tower was inlaid into the breastplate in pearl and topaz. "We are ready father," Baelor Brightsmile told his father, not even sparing a look at Jorah. 

"Ahhhh, it's time." Leyton Hightower walked to his son and placed his hand on his son's shoulder. "Have you made all the preparations?" 

Ser Baelor nodded once. "Our fleet is ready under the command of Gunthor," he said. "He has the command of our fleet and the harbor at Oldtown and its defenses. Uncle Morgan is leaving with an entourage to the King in the North and Garth and I are leading the armies."

"Good, very good." Leyton Hightower patted his son's armoured shoulder. "May the gods be with you. Victory will be yours." 

Baelor Brightsmile showed that handsome smile of his and left the prison cell. 

"You're calling your banners to fight your own king?" Jorah asked him. "Is that what you call honour?"

"When treating with liars, even an honest man must lie. I did not dare rise against King's Landing so long as dragons circled the skies and I did not have someone to fight for. Rhaegar thought my silence for Starfall was due to fear. If I had gotten my grandson ten years back, he would have seen how scared of him I was back then. How had I missed him all these years, I never knew. Because of that, I kept my mouth closed, kept my hands tied, declared my loyalty to king on the Iron Throne. I made peace with the king who killed my granddaughter and her family. But I had never forgotten it. Not Starfall, not my family and not the betrayal Rhaegar served my granddaughter.

"I am old, and many think that makes me weak and foolish. Mayhaps Rhaegar Targaryen was one such. I kept my word to him and stayed loyal to him because there was no one left to fight for. There the matter stood until the good gods sent back my grandson to me."

"You took a great risk, my lord," Jorah said. "If the boy you think to be your grandson is only an imposter you'll find that your words are for none."

"I took no risk at all. If some imposter hate Rhaegar and the Targaryens so much that they had taken it upon themselves to climb over a great castle like Winterfell and fight and kill a dragon and send the dragon prince off to the Wall, then I'll happily help him do it."

Jorah felt a shiver up his spine. He never knew the man could hold that much hatred. He must have really loved his granddaughter and her family like he say. "I see."

"You don't have any children, Ser and you would never know how it feels to see your children, your children's children and their children all die before your time is up. I've had enough of that and I'm not ready to loose any of my family hereafter."

"That includes the daughter I'd given you as your wife," Lord Leyton continued. Jorah's eyes snapped back to his goodfather's as he heard his say about his wife. 

"Lynesse?" he asked, shocked. "She is a lost cause. She would sell you off to the Targaryens if Rhaegar promises her a high seat, couple of fine silks and ermine and a handful of jewelry." He snapped at Hightower, the betrayal of his wife still fresh in his heart. 

"Lost cause but still mine," Leyton Hightower said calmly. "Unlike you, I don't give up on my family. By now Rhaegar would be watching every move of me, ser. He has his red priest to do that for him. Day and night I could feel eyes on me, nose sniffing for some whiff of treachery. I could feel glass candles burning everywhere in my city, at the Citadel, in my tower even in the inns at the lower part of Oldtown. No wonder he must have known of my intentions and the truth that has happened to his fleet by now. No doubt Rhaegar would call it as dishonourable and high treason and the roaches all around him would pick up his call as well. Treason they call it, I call it justice." Lord Leyton fingers coiled into a fist, and the flames of the torch his daughter held burned brightly.

"My granddaughter and her husband came to my daughter's home as guests and allies as well. While Eddard hung his sword upon the wall to feast and make peace, Rhaegar unsheathed his sword and started war. I have played my mummer's farce for so long that every time I close my eyes I could see Alysanne glaring at me with accusations. . . Its time that I show my daughter that I have not forgotten her."

Something about the way Lord Hightower said that chilled Jorah to the bone. "Why are you telling this to me?" he asked, confused. 

"This is not to say that I'm right or to give you my reasons for doing what I did," Lord Leyton Hightower said, stiffly. "This is the last warning I'm going to give you. If I ever see you taking your sword against my grandson anywhere, you're not going to get allowance I'd shown you in the harbour."

With that, the Lord of Oldtown left the cell with his daughter following him close behind like a dark shadow. 

The torch they had left in the room was the only lingering remainder of the Hightowers' presence. Jorah lowered himself to the floor of the cell and sat quietly thinking about the words of Lord Leyton. The shifting torchlight washed over him. Once their footsteps faded away, the only sound was the scrabbling of rats. His words troubled him beyond any reason. He thought of Lord Leyton's warning. Just thinking about it made him shiver. He wondered if Ser Loras had received the same warning as well or if it was just for the dishonoured good son. It was disquieting to think about how bad things had turned around. He had not even hoped that something like this might happen, but the gods like to play games with the minds of the people. He wondered if they might set him free from the cell, else what is the reason for the warning. 

He lifted his eyes to stare up at the torch. He looked for a long time, never blinking, watching the flames shift and shimmer. He tried to see beyond them, to peer through the fiery curtain and glimpse whatever lived back there . . . but there was nothing, only fire, and after a time his eyes began to water.

God-blind and tired, Jorah curled up on the straw and gave himself to sleep.

Three days later-well, at least he thought that it was three -Jorah heard voices outside his cell. He sat up at once, his back to the stone wall, listening to the sounds of struggle. This was new, a change in his unchanging world. The noise was coming from the left, where the steps led up to daylight. He could hear a man's voice, pleading and shouting.

" . . . Madness!" the man was saying as he came into view, dragged along between two guardsmen with the fiery tower on the front of their doublet. The chief gaelor went before them, jangling a ring of keys, and Ser Gunthor Hightower walked behind. "My lord," the prisoner said desperately, "in the name of our good king you cannot do this to me, unhand me! You cannot do this, I'm no traitor." He was an older man, tall and slender, with sweat matted black hair, a pointed beard, and a long handsome face twisted in fear. "I'm King Rhaegar's envoy. The Others take you all! Release me!"

The guards paid no mind to his outcries. "Here?" The gaoler asked in front of the cell. Jorah got to his feet. For an instant he considered trying to rush them when the door was opened, but that was madness. There were too many, the guards wore swords, and gaoler was strong man, he had known.

Ser Gunthor gave the gaoler a curt nod. "Yeah, let's put him here."

"I am no traitor!" screeched the prisoner as the gaoler was unlocking the door. The way he was richly dressed, in slashed velvet doublet and black breeches and his speech marked him as highborn. His birth and words will not serve him here, thought Jorah.

The gaoler swung the bars wide, Ser Gunthor gave a nod, and the guards flung their charge in headlong. The man stumbled and might have fallen, but Jorah caught him. At once he wrenched away and staggered back toward the door, only to have it slammed in his pale, pampered face. "No," he shouted. "Nooooo. " All the strength suddenly left his legs, and he slid slowly to the floor, clutching at the iron bars. Ser Gunthor, the gaoler, and the guards had already turned to leave. "You cannot do this," the prisoner shouted at their retreating backs. "I am the king's envoy! You can't do this to me. You'll soon face the king's wrath"

He was not going to get anything out of shouting threats. "Save your breath," he told the man. "You are not going to get anything with your threats."

The man turned his head. "Who . . . ?"

"Ser Jorah Mormont."

The envoy blinked. "Ser Jorah Mormont. . . You are the captain of the royal fleet."

Jorah did not deny it. "And who might you be?" He reached down a hand to help the other man to his feet.

Rhaegar Targaryen's envoy brushed the filthy straw from his clothing. "I . . . I must apologize for my appearance, ser. The Hightowers betrayed me and stabbed me in the back, me the king's envoy. Can you believe that?"

He had rings on all his fingers, noted Jorah, so he must be someone of high rank.

"No doubt these men are dated for death and are cursed by the gods," the envoy went on, oblivious. "This is unspeakable. War has its horrors, as all men know. No doubt you suffered your own losses. But this is unspeakable."

"I lost my fleet," said Davos. "All my men. And the trust and honour the king placed upon my name."

"Seven have mercy," the other man said. "May the Father judge them justly, and the Mother grant then mercy and may they find peace."

"I was told to make terms with Lord Hightower and to meet you here," the lord went on, "but no one told me of your fate in Oldtown. Has the fleet been destroyed completely?"

"I saw most of the sank with all hands." He remembered his last sight of his fleet. "It was scattered by the wrath of the sea. Countless good men lost their lives that day."

"These traitors," the envoy said. "How could they even think of doing something like that?"

Jorah remembered Lord Leyton's talk of treason, honour and family. All mattered nothing when it comes to war. "Do you know anything of the war, my lord?"

"Folly, that's folly." The envoy sat on the floor again, as if the effort of standing for a moment had been too much for him. "The King had given me instructions to ask you to strike straight at Winterfell. The boy must be pulled back from the south, he said. Every feet of land he takes in his grace's kingdom is a victory to the Starks. He fears that as long as boy comes closer and closer to King's Landing, his own men would turn their cloak. And it could not have been so far from the truth. Hightower had shown his worth."

"Did you hear anything about Princess Daenerys on your way here?"

The envoy waved his hand feebly. "No, nothing," he told Jorah. "Nothing more than that Griffin's Roost has fallen and the Stormlords are with Lord Robert now. No doubt Hightower must have heard it as well. That's how he should have gotten the courage to betray the king. I told them they had no choice. That the king would soon hear about it and would never let them see the end of it. I told them that the king would not let treason go unpunished."

Jorah smiled sadly thinking what Lord Leyton might have thought of those words. The envoy must have known it by now as well, as he is in the dungeons of the High Tower. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So House Hightower has fully committed to the Starks' side in the war. And Rhaegar knows it. Will they prevail this time? Lord Leyton is confident to see it through and is issuing warnings to those who are within his good interests so that they can save their lives. For now, the Reach is going to experience war as well.


	15. Chapter 15

_**Tyrion** _

Dawn was breaking, and pale ripples of sunlight shimmered on the steel tips of a thousand spears like stars in the night sky, shattering when the cloud covered the sun and reforming when the sun joined with the spear. The two thousand Dornish spears who had come from Prince Doran Martell were taking their journey north by the Kingsroad to join prince Aegon Targaryen in the Riverlands.

Three thousand men had come down from the Prince's Pass under the command of Ser Ulwyck Uller to protect the realm against the King in the North and his band of traitors. A thousand of them had stayed back in King's Landing under the command of Prince Oberyn Martell to see to the defense of the capital city of the Seven Kingdoms while the other two thousand left to support Prince Aegon on the battlefield. Tyrion Lannister had accompanied Prince Oberyn Martell to the Mud Gate to send the Dornishmen off to war against the Wolf. 

King's Landing is getting devoid of Targaryen power, Tyrion could see. Rhaegar was sending his close friends and allies out away from him, trying desperately to stop the onslaught of the Born King on his realm. The Hand of the King Jon Connigton was had left to the east hoping the get the assistance of his grace's powerful friends from Essos and the Free Cities. Rhaegar's own family was scattered all around King's Landing to deal with Stark and his allies. His eldest son is in Riverlands, trying to push out and lessen the grasp of the rebel faction. His sister, the Princess Daenerys is said to be flying between the Stormlands and the Reach, trying to deal with both Robert Baratheon and the Hightowers all at once. As powerful and fast as a dragon might be, even the majestic creature could not be at two places at once. His youngest son was at the Wall and his brother dead. Things weren't looking so well for the dragons, he could see. 

He could understand his father's siding to the rebel faction better now. Lord Tywin never believed in half measures and as such a losing faction was never an option for the Lord of Casterly Rock. 

What Tyrion could not understand however was the fact that why his father had chosen him to go to the court. Lord Tywin had always taken a great care to hide his shame, his dwarf son away from the eyes of the court. He had been confused as to why his father might have changed that bearing just for this task alone. He thought that he knew the answer now. No doubt his father must have thought that he would never survive King's Landing by the time this all ends. Small wonder why his father was so ready to send him to King's Landing to attend the crown prince's marriage in his own stead. After all losing Tyrion was not going to hurt or harm his father in any way. Lord Tywin would be more than happy to see him dead. 

Prince Oberyn gave certain instructions to the army of the dornishmen under Ser Ulwyck before they left to join Prince Aegon. Word had come from Stormlands that Robert Baratheon had destroyed the reach army under the command of Randyll Tarly and was now moving north to join up with the rebels in Riverrun. The orders given to the dornishmen were straight and simple. They were send to counter the involvement of the stormlords and harass the army all the way. 

"Whatever you do, don't try and fight a battle," Oberyn Martell told Ser Ulwyck. "Strike at their camps and baggage train. Ambush their scouts and hang the bodies from trees ahead of their line of march, loop around and cut down stragglers. I want night attacks, so many and so sudden that they'll be afraid to make camp and sleep. Free whatever prisoners you could find. Some of the Reach lords are held as captive in the warcamp."

Ser Ulwyck Uller nodded stiffly, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "All that you said will be done, my prince. We will make sure that they know of our presence."

"This is not Dorne you are going to fight in, and you won't be fighting against mere outlaws like the dragons like to say. The king has been so gracious as to give us such an important duty. Use the covers to your advantage and they'll serve you well."

"We will make them get introduced again to dornish ambushes, Prince Oberyn," the dornishman promised solemnly. And then it was time for him to lead his warhorse to the head of the long four mounted columns of dornishmen. Tyrion watched the dornishmen take off from King's Landing towards the north leaving only a cloud of dust in their wake. He felt a queer twinge in the pit of his stomach as the baggage train of Ser Ulywck's army faded in the morning mist. He had never thought that Prince Oberyn would gladly fight under the banner of the three headed dragon of House Targaryen. After all it was the same banner which claimed the lives of Oberyn' sister and her children, the Princess Elia and Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys who died in the struggle that happened between Rhaegar and Aerys Targaryen for the Iron Throne. It was well known that Prince Oberyn blamed the king for the deaths of himself sister and her children. 

Yet the Martells had promised the hand of their daughter to another dragon though. It showed him that the Martells had not yet lost their hope in the dragons. Without the Martells however, Rhaegar would be all alone against the boy and all the great lords on his side. 

Rhaegar would no doubt be hoping so hard to find some help from his friends from the east. Even with the Martells, it would not be enough to stop Andrew Stark and Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully and Leyton Hightower. If no reinforcements arrived with Jon Connington from the east, the war might be closing to an end. 

Tyrion wondered what he was going to do should the city fall to some enemy force. He still had Bronn and a handful of his hirelings. But Tyrion was not so delusional to think the the sellswords would be so eager to protect him with their lives if things turned sour. The best thing he could hope for was Prince Oberyn Martell to keep him in his good terms. 

Half the men who held the city of King's Landing were under the command of the Martell prince. He had near two thousand men in the garrison of the city which almost made up the numbers of the gold cloaks of the city. Like it or not, he had to make common cause with the man for his own benefits. Not just for him, Oberyn Martell was the best hope for the people of King's Landing as well. Of the Five thousand men holding the defense of the city, almost two thousand of them were the dornishmen of Prince Oberyn. 

The gold cloaks despite being higher in number were almost as uncertain a weapon as the hirelings he had under his command. Three thousand men in the City Watch, while not a bad number only a thousand or two of them could be relied upon if it comes to battle. The others were mostly boys greener than spring grass, men who joined for bread and ale and safety. No man liked to look craven in the sight of his fellows, so they would fight brave enough at the start, when it's all warhorns and blowing banners. But if the battle looked to be going sour they would break without any doubt, and they would break bad. The first man to throw down his spear and run will have a thousand more trodding on his heels no doubt. And just like that the city will fall which might mean the end of everyone inside including himself. 

To be sure, there were seasoned men in the City Watch, the core of the original thousand. Yet even those . . . a watchman was not truly a soldier, Lord Tywin Lannister had been fond of saying. Of knights and squires and men-at-arms, there were only a few hundreds of them were still left in King's Landing after the army that left the city with prince Aegon. Soon enough, he might come to test the truth of another of his father's sayings: One man on a wall was worth ten beneath it.

Bronn and the escort that had come with Prince Oberyn were waiting by the gate of the gods. They rode through the market square amidst swarming beggars, strolling whores, and fishwives crying the catch. The fishwives did more business than all the rest combined. Buyers flocked around the barrels and stalls to haggle over winkles, clams, and river pike. With no other food coming into the city, the price of fish was ten times what it had been before the war, and still rising. Those who had coin came to the market square each morning and each evening, in hopes of bringing home an eel or a pot of red crabs; those who did not slipped between the stalls hoping to steal, or stood gaunt and forlorn beneath the walls.

The gold cloaks cleared a path through the press, shoving people aside with the shafts of their spears. Tyrion ignored the muttered curses as best he could. Anyone in fancy clothes is an enemy to them just for being a highborn and having lavish foods in the castle while they were being sent scrambling for a bowl of brown. Tyrion knew that things were getting better now. Rhaegar had ordered Mace Tyrell to bring in food from Highgarden. 

Mounted, he gazed along the streets of the market square. Hammers rang in the morning air as carpenters swarmed over the Mud Gate, extending wooden hoardings from the battlements. They would do well to reinforce the gate sooner rather than later. It would not take long for a ram through break down the gate. A the clutter of ramshackle structures that had been allowed to grow up beside the gate, attaching themselves to the city walls; bait shacks and pot-shops, warehouses, merchants' stalls and alehouses. No doubt they would get off there to reinforce the gate further.

Tyrion led his horse close to Prince Oberyn, Bronn by his side. "Assemble a few hundred men and have patrols continously." Prince Oberyn was saying to one of his men. waved his hand at the clumsy crowd all around them. "I don't want to have an unrest inside the walls of the city."

The black-haired, dark eyed dornishmen turned his head to look around them at the mass of people, considering the task. "It might take more than a few hundred to have a patrol all around the city, my prince."

"Then take the enough men you need to do the job. I want the city under control."

The dornishman nodded his head once and wheeled his horse to go and do his duty. 

"I never imagined you would be so happy to help Rhaegar Targaryen out, Prince Oberyn," Tyrion told him when they were riding side by side. 

Oberyn Martell laughed. "Why? Do you take me for a traitor."

No, I took you for a man clouded with vengeance. For your sister and niece and nephew. "No, I would never imply such a thing," Tyrion said. 

"I may have my differences with Rhaegar," Prince Oberyn said, "but my brother has pledged to take the dragon's side once more. And my niece is supposed to marry the future king. I love Arianne too much to leave her alone and unguarded."

Tyrion gave a misleading smile, looking up at the face of the Martell prince trying to look beyond his words. He found nothing there though, nothing but a smile that hid a lot than he knew. "I would have thought you to do that in some other way."

Prince Oberyn gave a laugh. "Then you don't know me."

"Forgive me for my audacity, my prince," Tyrion said, grinning. "I don't think any man knows the Red Viper truly."

"Ask Ellaria about that," Oberyn said.

Tyrion chuckled. "I only said that no man knew you truly."

Oberyn Martell laughed loudly and Tyrion was left wondering what that laughter might hide from his eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would give rise to a lot a questions and confusions. Why would the Martells help Rhaegar? Why would Oberyn do so specifically? Like Tyrion said no man truly knows what the Red Viper thinks, but we will soon see it.


	16. Chapter 16

_**Daenerys** _

Dany watched her army march along the Rose road from the sky, perched on Drogon's back. The dragon was annoyed at the pace her troops were moving along beneath them. He was waiting for blood and battle, snorting plumes of smoke from his nostrils. He was made for war, not for waiting and watching men march from one place to another. The wind blowed against her face. Dany tightened her grip on Drogon's horns. Her legs tightened around the dragon's neck. She kicked him, and Drogon threw himself into the sky headfirst with a roar. She used her hands and feet and turned him north by east, the way her scouting party had gone to screen the road in front of them. Dany did not want to leave any of her men alone and undefended.

She had turned back from the Stormlands as soon as she heard about Oldtown and the betrayal of the Hightowers. Her brother had found the new traitors to be much more dangerous to be left unchecked in the lands ruled by her betrothed's family. And so Dany had left the Lords Tarly and Rowan and their forty thousand strong army to deal with Robert Baratheon and his Stormlords to turn back for Oldtown. She burned castles and holdings to relieve them from the enemies' grasp as she made her way back from the Stormlands to King's Landing. Rhaegar had given her a hastily mustered troops of some three thousand men on her march into the Reach.

On the sixth day of her flight upon the lands of the Reach she had learned of the defeat of the reachmen by the Stormlords under Robert Baratheon. Had she been with them, Dany could have turned the loss into a victory with the help of Drogon. But her brother had given her other orders to follow. Lord Tyrell had set forth before towards Highgarden with his entire retinue from King's Landing to get the ten thousand swords her betrothed Willas had gathered around him. Had it been just her and Drogon she would have been sitting in the gardens of Highgarden, nibbling sweet melons and sipping arbor gold with Willas. But the men she led did not possess the wings of the dragon and Dany was not ready to leave them unguarded while the news of the Hightowers declaring for the rebels circled around. There was always a chance that her army could come upon any foes in the Reach and he should be there to help them win the day.

The march from King's Landing to Bitterbridge seemed so long for Dany and Dragon. No matter how quick her men set the pace, it was too slow for Drogon. Her goodfather had sent word that he was resting his men at Bitterbridge while they were crossing a small village past the Tumbleton nearby the Mander. Dany knew he would be waiting for her there, not wanting to tread into the Hightowers' reach without the help of her dragon.

They were still a half day's ride from Lord Tyrell's camp when she spied the first presence of her good father's forces in the lands around them. Ser Robin Rosby had ranged ahead to scout, and he came galloping back with word of a far-eyes watching from the roof of a distant windmill. Dany had looked at the scouts leaving from the back of Dragon. She followed after them to announce her presence and not to scare them off unnecessarily.

In a dozen heartbeats they were past the scout, as he galloped far below. To the right and left, Dany glimpsed places where the grass had grown into thick hedges on either side of the Rose road. Drogon let out a loud shriek that sent shivers to her bone. A small herd of horses appeared below them. There were other riders too, a dozen or more, but they all turned and fled at the first sight of the dragon. 

By the time Dany's party reached the mill, the scouts of her goodfather were long gone. Dany returned back to her men and they pressed on, covering not quite a mile before Lord Mace's outriders came swooping down on them, forty men mailed and mounted, led by a brawny and swarthy giant of a knight with the golden rose of House Tyrell stitched on his surcoat.

When he saw her banners, he trotted up to her alone. "Your grace," he called, "I am Ser Hosman of Red Lake, as it please you. The sight of your fair face is a great sight during these difficult times." He looked at her dragon out of the corner of his eye and then turned her attention back to her. If he was unnerved by the sight of the dragon, he hid it wonderfully. He paid no more mind to the dragon than he would do for some horse.

"Thank you, Ser," she answered him. "I come on the orders of my brother, King Rhaegar to help you in your battle against the Hightowers."

"Lord Mace told us of your impending arrival, my lady. I believe you have come with more men to join our ranks," Ser Hosman answered, looking back at her men following up behind her. "His lordship is encamped with his host near Bitterbridge, where the roseroad crosses the Mander. It shall be my great honor to escort you to him." The knight raised a mailed hand, and his men formed a double column in front of her party. Drogon and Dany didn't need any escort, any way she knew. She mounted Drogon's back once again as the men started there ride to Bitterbridge led by Ser Hosman.

She saw the smoke of the camp's fires even from afar. From the sky the thin tendrils of smoke looked as if they were great black snakes, coiling and reaching up to the sky from the ground. Dany descended closer to the ground when they reached close to the river Mander and her good father's camp. The sounds of the men came drifting across farm and field and rolling plain, indistinct as the murmur of some distant sea, but swelling as they rode closer. Seated on the back of Drogon she could see the river even before her men reached it. Below, the stone-and-timber battlements of a small castle was beneath them on the ground. A field had been cleared off, fences and galleries and tilting barriers thrown up. Hundreds were occupying the camp of Mace Tyrell, perhaps thousands. 

By the time her men caught sight of the Mander's muddy waters glinting in the sun, Dany set Drogon down and landed beside the river, amidst the voices of men, the clatter of steel, the whinny of horses. Her scouts had told her how big the retinue accompanying Lord Tyrell was, but Dany wanted to see for herself. Lord Tyrell's party had gotten bigger than it must have been when it left King's Landing. The host around him must have grown in size with men from the Reach joining the ranks as the Lord of Highgarden returned back from the Red Keep. "Go hunting," she told the dragon as she stepped down from his back. He must be hungry after the long and tiresome flight. Keeping watch over the army below was a tiresome job, Dany knew and Drogon's duties had considerably reduced his hunting time. She wanted him on his full strength before the clash with the Hightowers.

The men soon reached up with her and Ser Gerold Hightower brought her mare to her. Dany mounted on her mare and looked across the fields, to where the Tyrell host lay athwart her path. Ser Jorah Mormont had taught her how best to count the numbers of a foe. It seemed as if her goodfather had a good force of about twenty five hundred around him in his camp. "It seems as if more men have joined Mace Tyrell on his way here," she said after a moment.

"I'd say so. See the banners, your grace?" Ser Gerold pointed to the banners. "There were many lords with Lord Tyrell's party in King's Landing to attend Prince Aegon's marriage, your grace. Those lords had their own men with them as well. Others are sellswords and mercenaries and hedge knights and possibly more peasants and mere boys who has never seen lances or swords before in their life. They would sooner have pitchforks and ploughshare in their hands than swords and spears."

There were many banners flapping in the cool breeze along the Rose road, primarily among them was the Tyrell rose. The lords accompanying her soon to be goodfather flew their own standards beneath those of the banners of Highgarden. There was the wyvern of House Wyrvel, An apple tree on yellow, a grey gatehouse on white, quartered which indicated the presence of Lord Appleton, Lord Ashford's white sun-and-chevron on orange, the three coloured feathers of House Cockshaw, a black banner with a field of silver caltrops of House Footly and others she didn't remember the names of. "This is a good enough force to deal with the internal threat," Dany noted. "Especially once combined with Willas' army and Drogon.

"Never be over confident of yourself, princess," Ser Gerold said. "Overconfidence makes you careless. Carelessness leads to mistakes, mistakes lead to destruction. These men are no equal for the knights and other grizzled veterans of different wars. A dozen peasants with sword cannot make any change like a single seasoned warrior could on a battlefield."

"What say you, Ser? Can we defeat the Hightowers?"

"Anyone can be defeated, princess," Ser Gerold answered.

"Even the Dragonslayer?" Dany asked. "They say no one can defeat him. They say that he can't be killed. Not even by dragons."

Ser Gerold was surprised at the mention of Andrew Stark. The King in the North was the nephew of Ser Gerold Hightower, the grandson of his own nephew. "In the tales and songs of the singers," the White Bull answered after a moment. "Stark's own father and mother died at Starfall. Even before their time came. What makes him, a man who came from their own blood so special?"

Nothing, Dany thought. He's just like any other man, nothing compared to the blood of the dragon. "We must win a battle here, Ser Gerold. We cannot let a war tear apart the Reach as well."

"That is ever a risk, princess," Ser Gerold said solemnly. "War is risk. But it is a risk we have to take for the king."

Dany considered his words. No doubt Ser Gerold would know more about his own family at Oldtown. The Hightowers might have mustered a large host in Oldtown comparable to her own numbers and like as not they could have better warriors, trained men and knights. She would need Drogon now more than ever. She cannot fail Rhaegar, not now. She should deal with the Hightowers with Fire and Blood something inside her said. "Would they come to talk?" she asked. "Lord Leyton that is. Perhaps we could end this without any bloodshed. We could send word to Oldtown that I want to have a parley with them. Perhaps they would be willing to see reason."

"As you wish," Ser Gerold said. He was not so hopeful about the plan however, she could see. "But I don't think they would come to talk, not after getting their hands dirty with the blood spilled at the harbour."

It was then Mace Tyrell rode up to meet with her upon the stonebridge where a bitter battle between the Faith Militant and Maegor the Cruel had taken place two hundred years ago. The battle was so savage that it had made the Mander run red with blood for twenty leagues giving the bridge its name Bitterbridge. She rode her silver mare about to meet him. "Lord Tyrell," she said.

"Princess Daenerys," Lord Tyrell said. "We are most pleased to see you here." There were other lords who followed him and greeted her. Most of them were looking around, searching curiously for the sight of the dragon.

"It is a pleasure to be in your company again, my lord," Dany said. "I have brought men to join your host and the strength of Drogon."

Mace Tyrell looked relieved to know that she had brought Drogon. The dragon would make it easy victory for them. "Please follow us back to the castle, your grace," Lord Caswell said. "We have prepared room for you inside and your men could join ours in the camp around the castle."

Slate skies and brisk winds saw Dany on her short ride to the castle of Lord Caswell. The castle in Bitterbridge was not a great structure. The castle was small and was made up of stone and timber. Dany wouldn't call it tall but the flatlands around the castle made it look taller than it actually was. The banners of House Caswell flew from the ramparts, a yellow centaur with bow on white. In the low, flat lands around the castle Lord Tyrell's host had made camp. A deep ditch encircled the camp and the slopes were completely armed with sharpened stakes. They had spent enough time here to fortify the camp, Dany thought and they had done a good job at it.

Once inside the castle Dany called for all the noble lords present there to an immediate meeting to make plans for the clash against the Hightowers. They met at the great hall of Lord Caswell's castle. "Do you have any news about Oldtown?" Dany asked them.

"Oldtown has girded up for war," Lord Tyrell said at once. "We have heard that Ser Baelor is leading a huge host out of Oldtown to meet us out in battle."

And there goes my chance for all the peace talks. Dany frowned at the news. "Well, it seems as if we have no choice but to bare steel against them," Dany said. "Are the men ready for battle?"

Dany remembered Ser Gerold's words about the difference between peasants armed with swords and trained men. She had to know if they were ready for battle or not. Should they come to face the Hightowers in battle, the men should be ready for it. Dany knew that she could burn her foes down without a doubt. She could have Drogon torch Oldtown should the city defy her, but she would need men to hold the city for her brother.

"We have about two thousand and some several hundred men here in the castle armed and armoured for battle, princess," Lord Tyrell said. "My son Willas have assembled another army in Highgarden to join us on our way to Oldtown."

"The numbers may not be in our favour, your grace," Lord Philip Footly said. "Ser Baelor is said to lead an army which is supposed to be as large as ours."

"We will have Drogon on our side," Dany declared confidently. "Surely that must tip the odds on our favour." She turned her head to look what Ser Gerold thought about it.

Ser Gerold stood beside her unmoving like a statue cut from pale marble. Dany would want his wisdom and knowledge in battle more than she needed the others. The White Bull was a brilliant knight even as he grew old and loyal to a fault. She wondered why her brother had sent the knight with her to fight his own family. To test his loyalty perhaps, she thought. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard obeyed his grace's command without a word however and Dany was grateful for his company.

"If the Hightowers want war then they shall have it," Dany told the men inside the hall. "All of these traitors should know what they would get in return for siding against their rightful king."

"We should be cautious, your grace," Lord Appleton said. "Lord Leyton is a clever man who won a great victory at the Battle of Oldtown without any bloodshed. He holds a lot of our friends and allies as hostages, people who haven't died yet."

Yes, hostages, Dany has almost forgotten about it. Her old bear was probably a hostage as well, maybe, she never knew. If he was still a hostage then Dany would free him as soon as she could get to Oldtown. She could not let him rot in the dungeons, not her old friend who had been her sworn sword and constant companion.

"Clever?" Dany sat down and stretched her legs, and thought about Drogon and his dark flames with crimson streaks. "We shall see how clever he is when Drogon flies over the skies around his High Tower," she said softly and left the Hall and meeting.

Within the perimeter the Unsullied had established, the tents were going up in orderly rows, while Dany took up residence in Lord Caswell's castle. A second encampment was being made close to the one the Tyrells had made; a bit bigger than the other one, sprawling and slowly rising up into position. The second camp had no ditches or stakes to defend itself for they knew that they wouldn't stay there for too long.

That night Lord Caswell threw a small feast in honour of her name. Dany had attended it graciously for the hospitality of Lord Lorent Caswell. Despite the ongoing war that threatened the Targaryen rule, the men in the feast were on high spirits barely even bothered about the battles they would have to fight. Dany stayed in the hall until it could be considered enough and then left to her chambers.

A stillness settled over her chambers when midnight came and went. Dany remained in her chambers alone without any sleep, while Ser Gerold Hightower kept the guard. She has been having some nightmares lately, mostly about the death of Viserion. She could not help but feel about the visions of Quaithe and the thoughts about that made Dany feel half a child again.

When she couldn't sleep she called in Ser Gerold knowing that a talk could set her right. When the old man came, she had moved up from the bed and changed her clothes suitable for a night's walk. "I cannot sleep, Ser Gerold, " she said. "Can we go have a walk?"

"Of course, Your Grace."

Dany followed the knight through a low door into a stair tower. As they started up, she asked, "You knew the parents of Andrew Stark, Ser Gerold. Tell me why does he hate my family so much, if you would. What made him hate the Targaryens so much?"

"Your grace, I don't know if it's my place to . . . "

"It is now," said Dany sharply. "I know about Viserys' death, I know about all the deaths during my brother Rhaegar's visit to Braavos, I know about Jaehaerys' fate in the North. I have never heard about a man with such hatred in his heart. Tell me what you know, Ser. I command it."

"As you say, princess." Ser Gerold bowed his white head respectfully. "I can't say what might be in his heart, Princess. All I ever remember is the boy who hid behind his mother's skirts. I was already a knight when I heard about my father and mother's death. They both lived to see their children grow, have children of their own and hold their grandchildren. One might even say that they lived past their time, still it hurt me when I heard of their deaths."

It hurts, Dany knew it very well. Her mother had died giving birth to her. She missed Queen Rhaella a lot even after it's been more than a decade since her death. "But his father was a traitor, right?" asked Dany. "Surely he was wrong in breaking his ties the Iron Throne. A betrayal to the mercy Aegon the Conqueror showed to his ancestor."

Ser Gerold looked down at the floor. "You know your grace, there was a time where your brother exchanged talks with the Queen in the North hoping to make a match between you and Andrew Stark. If that had worked perhaps things would have been very different."

Dany looked at the Lord Commander with wide eyes. She hadn't known about this betrothal. Lord Caswell's keep was scarcely tall enough to call a tower, but the country was low and flat and Dany could see for leagues in all directions. The fires were burning in the camp around them. Looking up at the stars Daenerys Targaryen thought about Ser Gerold's words. Of how her life would have changed if she had married Andrew Stark. He might not have become the Dragonslayer then. She might have become a queen in Winterfell. But it was not supposed to happen and fate would have them meet against each other in battlefield rather than in marriage bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's only hours away before the end of 2020 and I step into 2021. I rushed through to the chapter to meet you guys, my wonderful readers, for the last time in 2020 and to also wish you guys for reaching the new year safely despite all the hurdles this year threw at you. I hope you guys all have a prosperous new year and may 2021 bring joy and happiness to all our lives. Happy New Year!!! 
> 
> Thanks for reading my story. Hope you guys like this chapter despite me forcing my way through it. Leave a comment and let me know what you guys think. Thank you and see you guys in the next year.


	17. Chapter 17

_**Jaehaerys** _

They came upon the village on a cold early morning with only the sound of the frigid northern wind blowing accompanying them. Whitetree, the village was named on Samwell Tarly's old maps. Jaehaerys did not think it looked much of a village. It was smaller than even the smallest of the crofters village in the Seven Kingdoms. Whitetree consisted of four tumbledown one-room houses of unmortared stone surrounded an empty sheepfold and a well. That was all it consisted, one of the big villages of the wildlings. The houses were roofed with sod, the windows shuttered with ragged pieces of hide and leather. The most impressive feature of the village could no doubt be the tree from which the village took it's name. Above the village loomed the pale limbs and dark red leaves of a monstrous great weirwood.

It was the biggest tree Jaehaerys Targaryen had ever seen. Even the huge weirwood of Winterfell would be a little tree compared to this monstrosity. The tree was so big that it covered almost all of the village. The trunk of the tree was near eight feet wide, the branches spreading so far that the entire village was shaded beneath their canopy. The size did not disturb him so much as the face did . . . the mouth especially. Jaehaerys could not tell if it was necessarily a mouth. It just looked like a big carved slash, a jagged hollow large enough to swallow a sheep.

Inside the wide open mouth there were ashes, ashes and bones. Despite the mouth having made large enough to swallow sheep, the bones inside are not sheep bones, though. Nor is that a sheep's skull in the ashes.

"An old tree." Mormont sat his horse, frowning. "Old," his raven agreed from his shoulder. "Old, old, old."

"And powerful." Jaehaerys could feel the power.

Thoren Smallwood dismounted beside the trunk, dark in his plate and mail. "Look at that face. Small wonder men feared them, when they first came to Westeros. I'd like to take an axe to the bloody thing myself."

Jaehaerys said, "My mother said no man could tell a lie in front of a heart tree. The old gods know when men are lying."

"My father believed the same," said the Old Bear. "Here, let me have a look at that skull."

Jaehaerys dismounted. Slung across his back in a black leather shoulder sheath was Longclaw, the hand-and-a-half blade the Old Bear had given him for saving his life. The sword that belonged to the sword of the Old Bear's son, Ser Jorah Mormont. 

He knelt and reached a gloved hand down into the maw. The inside of the hollow was red with dried sap and blackened by fire. He scrunched up his face and searched for the skull inside the tree. Beneath the skull he saw another, smaller, the jaw broken off. It was half-buried in ash and bits of bone. Jaehaerys turned his head away and snatched the skull Lord Commander Mormont wanted to see. 

When he brought the skull to Mormont, the Old Bear lifted it in both hands and stared into the empty sockets. "The wildlings burn their dead. We've always known that. Now I wished I'd asked them why, when there were still a few around to ask."

Jaehaerys Targaryen remembered the wight rising, its eyes shining blue in the pale dead face. He knew why, he was certain. He remembered the stories of the heart trees from his boyhood. Thousands of years ago, before the coming of the Andals it is said that the Children of the Forest gave blood sacrifices to their gods often times giving them human flesh to gorge on to placate their gods. The First men often hung the entrails of the condemned and placed them in the branches of weirwoods. Jaehaerys had only ever taken them as the stories of the wet nurse but seeing the weirwood in Whitetree with its predatory mouth and the bones inside, he could not help but see some truth in those stories. 

"If only these bones could talk," the Old Bear grumbled. "This fellow could tell us much. How he died. Who burned him, and why. Where the wildlings have gone." He sighed. "The children of the forest could speak to the dead, it's said. But I can't." He tossed the skull back into the mouth of the tree, where it landed with a puff of fine ash. "Go through all these houses. Giant, get to the top of this tree, have a look. I'll have the hounds brought up too. Perchance this time the trail will be fresher." His tone did not suggest that he held out much hope of the last.

Bedwyck set to his duty about at once, getting ready for the long and hard climb up. He was a short man, only a hair and half over five feet, Bedwyck was probably the shortest man in the Night's Watch. For that reason the brothers of the Night's Watch had called him Giant for the stature of the man. While the short ranger, Bedwyck, scrambled up the thick trunk of the weirwood, the others joined up and searched about the village. 

Two men went through each house, to make certain nothing was missed. Jaehaerys was paired with Ser Gwayne. They chose the first house and walked towards it. "Bad enough when the dead come walking," the knight said to Jaehaerys as they crossed the village, "now the Old Bear wants them talking as well? Can you believe all of which is happening here, my prince? The stories of the wet nurses, they are just a reality in this part of the world. Maybe not the snarks or grumpkins but there are beings worse than them."

Jaehaerys had to stoop to pass through the low door. Within he found a packed dirt floor. There were no furnishings, no sign that people had lived here but for some ashes beneath the smoke hole in the roof. "What a dismal place to live," he said.

"Looks like the place where the dead live," said Ser Gwayne looking around the house. "Do you think that is why the Wildlings deserted the village?" A nest of dry straw bedding filled one corner of the room. A puff of dust took to air as the knight took a seat on it. "I don't like the smell of this place, my prince. We should leave this village as soon as possible."

"How do you know that?"

"I could feel it in my heart." Ser Gwayne put his had on his chest. "If the people who lived here found it not safe to be here anymore, then we should leave as well."

The house felt as though it had been empty for some time. Kneeling, he searched through the straw with his hands to see if anything had been concealed beneath, then made a round of the walls. It did not take very long. "There's nothing here."

Nothing was what he had expected; Whitetree was the fourth village they had passed, and it had been the same in all of them. The people were gone, vanished with their scant possessions and whatever animals they may have had. None of the villages showed any signs of having been attacked. They were simply . . . empty. "Could they have indeed been chased off by the dead?" Jaehaerys asked.

"There is nothing worse I can imagine," suggested Ser Gwayne Gaunt. "There is nothing worse than watching dead men walk, my prince. If they could creep past the Wall to get to us, imagine what horrors these wildlings who lives so far up North could have witnessed."

Jaehaerys could only have to imagine the bright blue eyes sparkling in the dark to know the truth about his words. Just the memory of the evil being sent a shiver down his spine. If only Viserion was with him now, he wouldn't worry as much about it as he did now. 

When they came out of the house, two of the hounds were sniffing around the door as they reemerged. Other dogs ranged through the village. Chett, the former care taker of Maester Aemon and the now kennel keeper of Caste Black was cursing his dogs loudly, his voice thick with the anger he never seemed to put aside. The light filtering through the red leaves of the weirwood made the boils on his face look even more inflamed than usual. When he saw the prince his eyes narrowed; there was no love lost between them.

The other houses had yielded no wisdom. "Gone," cried Mormont's raven, flapping up into the weirwood to perch above them. "Gone, gone, gone."

"There were wildlings at Whitetree only a year ago." Thoren Smallwood looked more a lord than Mormont did, clad in Ser Jaremy Rykker's gleaming black mail and embossed breastplate. His heavy cloak was richly trimmed with sable, and clasped with the crossed hammers of the Rykkers, wrought in silver. Ser Jaremy's cloak, once . . . but the wight had claimed Ser Jaremy, and the Night's Watch wasted nothing.

"A year ago Rhaegar was the only king in the Seven Kingdoms, and the realm was at peace," declared Jarman Buckwell, the square stolid man who commanded the scouts. "Much can change in a year's time."

"One thing hasn't changed," Ser Mallador Locke insisted. "Fewer wildlings means fewer worries. I won't mourn them, whatever might have happened to them. Raiders and murderers, the lot of them. We don't have to mourn them, only have to kill them."

Jaehaerys didn't mourn the wildlings for what might have happened of them. He only mourned for what they might have become. The blue eyes like frozen stars, the grasping dead, black hands, were still fresh on his memory. What evil power that had made Othor move might have found these wildlings as well and Jaehaerys was not so excited about meeting another moving corpse whose sole intent is to kill him. 

The prince heard a rustling from the red leaves above. Two branches parted, and he glimpsed a little man moving from limb to limb as easily as a squirrel. Bedwyck stood no more than five feet tall, but the grey streaks in his hair showed his age. The Giant sat in a fork of the tree over their heads and said, "There's water to the north. Might be a lake, I think so. A few flint hills rising to the west, not very high. Nothing else to see, my lords."

"We might camp here tonight," Smallwood suggested.

"I don't like it," Ser Gwayne said from beside him, low enough so only Jaehaerys could hear him. "We should leave."

The Old Bear glanced up, searching for a glimpse of sky through the pale limbs and red leaves of the weirwood. "Giant, how much daylight remains to us?"

"Three hours, my lord."

"We'll press on north," Mormont decided. "If we reach this lake, we can make camp by the shore, perchance catch a few fish. Jaehaerys, fetch me paper, it's past time I wrote Maester Aemon."

Jaehaerys found parchment, quill, and ink in his saddlebag and brought them to the Lord Commander. At Whitetree, Mormont scrawled. The fourth village. All empty. The wildlings are gone. "Find Tarly and see that he gets this on its way," he said as he handed Jaehaerys the message. When he whistled, his raven came flapping down to land on his horse's head. "Corn," the raven suggested, bobbing. The horse whickered.

Jaehaerys left them all beneath the weirwood and mounted his garron, wheeled him about to find Samwell Tarly. Beyond the shade of the great weirwood the men of the Night's Watch stood beneath lesser trees, tending their horses, chewing strips of salt beef, laughing and talking. When the command was given to move out again, the talk died, and they climbed back into their saddles. Jarman Buckwell rode out with his scouts first. Then went the vanguard under Thoren Smallwood, a proper double column of mounted riders. Jaehaerys rode with the Old Bear in the main force after them, with Ser Mallador Locke leading the baggage train and packhorses, and finally Ser Ottyn Wythers and the rear guard. Two hundred men all told, with half again as many mounts.

By day they followed game trails and streambeds, the "ranger's roads" that led them ever deeper into the wilderness of leaf and root. At night they camped beneath a starry sky. The black brothers had left Castle Black in good spirits, joking and trading tales, but of late the brooding silence of the wood seemed to have sombered them all. Jests had grown fewer and tempers shorter. No one would admit to being afraid—they were men of the Night's Watch, after all—but Jaehaerys could feel the unease. Four empty villages, no wildlings anywhere, even the game seemingly fled. The haunted forest had never seemed more haunted, even veteran rangers agreed.

As he rode, Jaehaerys peeled off his glove to look at his hands. Despite having gotten them on fire, his flesh had mostly been unharmed. He remembered how his father had once told him that he was the blood of the dragon and hence fire couldn't hurt a dragon. Jaehaerys had been quite hesitant to check it out in the past but he had done it at Castle Black not out of interest but out of necessity. Only fire seemed to triumph against the wight. They would need the help of his brother Aegon and his dragon if there was an army of wights roaming these lands. And the help of his aunt Dany and her dragon as well. They were far away from Jaehaerys though. And now, he was alone without his own dragon. Alone and with a sword. He had to keep his sword close and trust in the strength of his arm now more than ever. A man needed his sword beyond the Wall.

Jaehaerys found Samwell Tarly with the other stewards, watering his horses. He had three to tend: his own mount, and two packhorses, each bearing a large wire-and-wicker cage full of ravens. The birds flapped their wings at his approach and screamed at him through the bars. A few shrieks sounded suspiciously like words. "Have you been teaching them to talk?" he asked Sam.

"A few words. Three of them can say snow."

"One bird croaking dark words was bad enough," said Jaehaerys, "and snow is the last thing a black brother wants to hear about now." Snow often meant death in the north.

"Was there anything in Whitetree?"

"Bones, ashes, and empty houses." Jaehaerys handed Sam the roll of parchment. "Lord Commander Mormont wants to send word back to Maester Aemon."

Sam took a bird from one of the cages, stroked its feathers, attached the message, and said, "Fly home now, brave one. Home." The raven quorked something unintelligible back at him, and Sam tossed it into the air. Flapping, it beat its way skyward through the trees. "I wish he could carry me with him."

"Still?"

"Well," said Sam, "yes, but . . . I'm not as frightened as I was, truly. The first night, every time I heard someone getting up to make water, I thought it was wildlings creeping in to slit my throat. I was afraid that if I closed my eyes, I might never open them again, only . . . well . . . dawn came after all." He managed a wan smile. "I may be craven, but I'm not stupid. I'm sore and my back aches from riding and from sleeping on the ground, but I'm hardly scared at all. Look." He held out a hand for Jaehaerys to see how steady it was. "I've been working on my maps."

The world is strange, he thought then. Only a year ago he had been at Winterfell, warm within the hot walls of the castle. Now there was a King who ruled from Winterfell while Jaehaerys is a black brother of the Night's Watch. And only a few months ago, two hundred brave men had left the Wall, and the only one who was not growing more fearful was Sam, the self-confessed coward who had been the one who was scared the most about the great ranging of the Old Bear. "We'll make a ranger of you yet," he joked. "Next thing, you'll want to be an outrider like Grenn. Shall I speak to the Old Bear?"

"Please don't do it!" Sam said shivering. He pulled up the hood of his enormous black cloak and clambered awkwardly back onto his horse. It was a plow horse, big and slow and clumsy, but better able to bear his weight than the little garrons the rangers rode. "I had hoped we might stay the night in the village," he said wistfully. "It would be nice to sleep under a roof again."

"Too few roofs for all of us." Jaehaerys said as he mounted again, but he didn't tell him why they had thought it to be too dangerous to stay there. He gave Sam a parting smile, and rode off. The column was well under way, so he swung wide around the village to avoid the worst of the congestion. He had seen enough of Whitetree.

They should be running low on supplies as well, Jaehaerys thought as he rode past the baggage train. The foragers Thoren Smallwood sent out after game always returned empty handed. The woods were as empty as the villages, Dywen had told him one night around the fire. "We're a large party," Jaehaerys had said. "The game's probably been frightened away by all the noise we make on the march."

"Frightened away by something, no doubt," Dywen said.

He could think of something which might have frightened them off, but he had stayed silent not wanting the men to be more unnerved than they actually were. He caught up to Mormont as he was wending his way around a hawthorn thicket. "Is the bird away?" the Old Bear asked.

"Yes, my lord. Sam is teaching them to talk."

The Old Bear snorted. "He'll regret that. Damned things make a lot of noise, but they never say a thing worth hearing."

They rode in silence, until Jaehaerys said, "If we are to find all these villages empty, then they could have very well been empty when Benjen Stark found them."

"And he would have made it his purpose to learn why," Lord Mormont said looking straight at the road. "There might well be someone or something that does not want us to know the truth behind these disappearances. Well, we'll be three hundred when Qhorin joins us from the Shadowtower. Whatever enemy waits out here will not find us so easy to deal with. We will find them, I promise you."

Or they will find us, thought Jaehaerys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The great northern ranging is underway. I'm having quite some plans for it here. Hopefully I could deliver it in the best way possible. I'm sitting down and working on three stories at once while dealing with real life stuff. Sometimes I feel as if I'm rushing things up. If you ever felt that way anytime, just let me know in the comments so I can get the quality up and set things right. It is your criticism that helps me become a better writer. 
> 
> I hope you guys like this chapter. Leave a comment and let me know what you thought of it. As always, thanks for reading my story. Have a nice day.


	18. Chapter 18

_**** _

_**Andrew** _

The air smelled of paper and dust and years. Before him, tall wooden shelves rose up into dimness, crammed with leatherbound books and huge tomes and volumes recorded by the maesters throughout the history. A faint yellow glow from the lamp lightened up the table where Andrew sat reading after a long time. He had brought only one little lamp here just enough to show him the words from the books. He did not risk bringing a torch or other thing into the library of Riverrun, preferring not to risk an open flame amidst so much old dry paper. Instead he had followed the light of the lamp, wending his way down the narrow aisles beneath barrel-vaulted ceilings. 

He had been at it for a long time, passing over a dozen books and searching through a hundred pages, always watching to find something about dragons and dragonslayers. His search has not yielded any results yet, but Andrew was not in the mood to giving up. He ought to find something soon enough or risk leaving his men unguarded to the dragons of the Targaryens which still flew over the Seven Kingdoms. All those men who had followed him all the way from Winterfell, who fought with him, who bled and died for him, they all had done it on his word. Even now they were not afraid to face the terrible beasts, believing that their King would protect them the same way he had protected Winterfell.

His men called him Dragonslayer and Andrew knew that was not necessarily the truth, he knew. They took courage from his name and his actions at Winterfell and Andrew knew that he had done that with the help of Frost and Winterfell and some luck. When he had prepared himself in that night to battling a dragon, he had very little faith that it would all work. Andrew had not bothered with death or anything else. He had already lost everything he held dear and nothing else to lose. He would have died there happily as the son of King Eddard Stark and Queen Ashara Dayne, fighting his last fight against the dragons trying to avenge his family. Now though he had several thousand men under his command and Andrew had to protect them no matter what.

  
He had been hoping to find anything about dragons which might give him the chance to bringing them down. So far Andrew had found none. Even the Dornish who had brought down Queen Rhaenys' beast, Meraxes had never recorded how they had actually done it. He had found other stories and legends in the search however. When he had been a boy, Andrew would have no doubt loved his stories, but now he knew there was little truth in these tales and legends. He has known some of these stories he'd read today from his youth. His mother used to tell him of different stories before bed, from the Shadowchaser, to Symeon Stareyes and Serwyn of Mirrorshield and Florian the Fool and Galladon of Morne there has been dozens of stories and knightly heroes who had been his favourites.

He had only ever managed to find out about them in the library of Riverrun as well. The tales and stories of Florian, Galladon the Perfect Knight, Serwyn Mirrorshield and Symeon Stareyes. All of them just fables from the Age of Heroes. The songs and stories would not help him in any way, Andrew knew. He had learned that a long way before.

There were dragonslayers in the stories as well. Andrew remembered them from his mother's stories. There was the story if the Perfect Knight, Ser Galladon of Morne. Ser Galladon had been a champion of such valor that the Maiden herself lost her heart to him. She gave him an enchanted sword as a token of her love. The Just Maid, it was called. No common sword could stop her, nor any shield withstand her kiss. Ser Galladon bore the Just Maid proudly, but he unsheathed it only three times. The Perfect Knight was so honourable that he would not use the Maid against a mortal man, for she was so potent as to make any fight unfair. Galladon was no fool though. He might have unsheathed the Just Maid against any giant tall as a tree and mounted on mammoth. And his mother had told him that he once used the Just Maid to slay a dragon. There had even been a song about it.

Then there was Serwyn of the Mirror Shield who had fought the legendary dragon Urrax. Serwyn approached the dragon behind his shield. Urrax saw only his own reflection until Serwyn had plunged his spear through his eye. It was from these stories Andrew had learned to strike the dragon down at Winterfell with the help of a spear through the eye and the sword through the gullet and underbelly. Even from beyond her grave Queen Ashara was still finding ways to help him out in everything he was doing. If only she was here now, Andrew sighed.

He heard the faint sound of footsteps on the stone approaching him. "Have you been here all night?"

Andrew looked up to see Asher Forrester standing there in the shadows. "Have I?"

"You didn't break your fast with us, and people are wondering where you had gone."

He hadn't known that he had been there for the whole night. Andrew had lost himself in the books he was reading that he had lost track of time somewhere around the hour of the owl. He had never enjoyed his lessons as a boy in Winterfell, always preferring childhood plays and wooden swords over that of numbers and lessons. He had lost all the chance of learning once he lost his parents in Starfall though. So when Andrew Stark got the chance to read some books once again, he didn't hesitate to take it.

"I was just here reading something," Andrew said.

"You should be planning for the war with the other lords and bannermen, Your grace," Asher said.

"I will be there in a moment." Andrew closed the book and pushed it away. "I lost track of time with all the books here." He gazed about him. The library at Winterfell was much bigger than the one at Riverrun and it had more than several hundred books, some very much more rarer than others. He wondered if anything from the library of Winterfell could have shown him a way to deal with the dragons.

"What were you hoping to find here?" Asher's hand swept over the table, fingers indicating the clutter of books and scrolls before him. He unfolded the binding of a book. "The Dance of the Dragons, A True Telling, by Maester Munkun." He shoved some scrolls aside to reveal another big tome. "What were you hoping to find in this one?"

"A way to slay an adult dragon."

He'd only meant to sound encouraging but Andrew could see that the talk of dragons troubled Asher. Has he ever faced or seen the beast before? Andrew thought. If he did so, Asher Forrester had never mentioned about it to him before.

"Have you found a way?" His oldest friend asked.

Andrew looked down having no answer for his question. He had promised to find a way and even brought Mikken with him to forge scorpion bolts strong enough to slay a dragon but none of it had given him something which might truly work against the winged beasts.

"We will find a way soon," Andrew told him, smiling sadly. "It's good to see you again, Asher. I am so glad that you are safe and you came back."

"We are friends remember," Asher said. "Even though it didn't last long in Essos when you got away from us."

A sad little smile brushed the lips of Andrew Stark. He remembered the youthful days in Braavos he had shared with his friend. Those were some of the good days he'd seen after the loss of his parents. "We always had our own lives to live even then," Andrew told him, sighing. "Me with my life of fighting and chasing and you. . . with your life amongst family to keep you safe as if you were in your father's castle. Still we managed to have a good even without knowing the truth about each other."

"Aye, that we did," his friend laughed. "One thing though, I was never very safe in my father's castle. That's why I was in the east remember."

The gods play cruel jests, Andrew thought. They had both left the Seven Kingdoms for the same reason after living about in the nearby castles for years, yet both had been oblivious to the truth about them. Andrew was glad that they could at the very least meet again as their own true selves. He had been grateful to Asher for many a things. For his friendship, for his help in bringing back the Company of the Rose to his side and even for holding up the Trident so that he could join up with Lord Arryn.

"I remember that," Andrew told his friend. "You are right. I should get out from here."

They climbed the steep stone steps descending into the library of Riverrun and came out to the corridor straight in front of the yard. They emerged into a brisk wind that felt so good against his face. Ghost was stretched out asleep beside the stairs, but he woke when Andrew appeared, bushy white tail held stiffly upright as he trotted to them. The Knights of the Vale were at their morning drill with horses trodding across the yard to strike down the quintains set up in the far end of the yard, while men from the North, the Vale and the Riverlands were hacking at the dummies filled with straw with their swords and axes and other weapons.

The shining knights from the Vale made a splendid sight with their silver plate glinting in the morning sun and the wooden frame shaped like wings attached to the back of their breastplate. The wooden wings were adorned with adorned with eagle, hawk or falcon feathers making those knights wearing them appear as if they were angels riding down from the heaven. Andrew couldn't help but marvel at these formidable group of warriors. They were called the Winged Knights amongst the Valemen, the proud and powerful part of the chivalry of Lord Jon Arryn.

He had never seen such a fine cavalry in his entire life. Andrew had seen them in the training yard running down against the quintains and the dummies, their lances always striking true and the men seating their horses never once flinching from the saddle when they rode. He had never seen them in the field but Andrew only had to hear the stories of their exploits to know how formidable a force the knights were to be reckoned with. He was told how the winged knights had gone through the Targaryens like lance through ripe pumpkin.

Andrew stood there and watched them for some time. The knights were heavily armoured with plate armour and each and every one of them bore a lance which were longer that of the standard lances of the other knights by about more than five feet. Some even held ones twice as long as the normal lances to get the advantage of reach over their foes. Tipped with cold, glinting steel points no rider would be so excited to be on the opposite side of those lances and their horses won't be so eager to move against some beasts from hell who had seemingly grown wings riding against them. And when they all rode together they indeed looked like they were angles of death. It was a force even his father would approve of.

Across the yard, a squire made a pass at the quintain and sent the crossarm spinning. A lot of uproar went from the bystanders watching him ride. Andrew watched as the squire brought his courser to a halt and climbed down amidst the winged knights of the Vale.

Lord Jon Arryn's son, Ser Robert was giving him a review of his pass. The boy was breathless with excitement. He had broken the lance as well. His strike must have been true to have broken the lance. A falcon of jasper and pearl clasped Robert Arryn's white cloak at the shoulder, and the wind was making his cloak snap behind him. "You rode a splendid course, but once is not enough. You must do it again upon the morrow. You must ride every day, until every blow lands true and straight, and your lance is as much a part of you as your arm."

Andrew could see the boy being proud of himself. He was hoping to join the ranks of these great knights one day, Andrew could see. And he was well on his way to joining their ranks. Andrew squinted up at the sky wondering what time of day it was. The morning sky was streaked by thin grey clouds. He was hungry after having missed the supper last night and the breakfast in the morning. He walked over to the great hall of Riverrun.

Ghost loped ahead of them. On the castle grounds near the armoury, Ser Robin Ryger was working with some raw recruits while Ser Desmond Grell was training some new bowmen. Andrew Stark watched the swordplay closely. And he witnessed the marksmanship of the practicing archers as well.

"Show us your mettle," Ser Robyn grunted. "The King in the North is watching."

His foe a lanky boy who could not have been any older than him, spurred on by his words and outstretched himself in his quest to impress the king. That was all the opening a skilled swordsman like Ser Robin needed. The Captain of guards at Riverrun bullrushed his foe and knocked him sprawling.

"What do you make of them, Your grace?" Ser Desmond came to his side, who was a seasoned warrior himself and the master-at-arms of Riverrun. But with all the men occupying Riverrun, even a fine tutor like Ser Desmond needed some help from the others to train and prepare the young men for war. With his big belly and long hair and beard gone white with age, Ser Desmond still made a strong sight with his armour on and sword in hand. "They smell of summer, don't they?"

Andrew looked at the recruits with grey eyes. "They'll do." He said at last watching them over.

Of that he was more than certain. The world was constantly changing. Andrew himself had gone from a prince to a bastard and returned as a king. In this world only winter is certain. He remembered his father's words. Nothing else in this world was certain, nothing else but winter. Several years ago Andrew himself had been like them, new to the feeling of a sword and shield in hand. Now they hailed him as Dragonslayer. Not so long ago I was kneeling beside some stream sucking snowmelt from cupped hands, but now they call me king and serve me summerwine in jeweled goblets. He wondered how true his father's words actually were.

Ser Desmond eyed him frankly. "I hope that's so, your grace, for their own sake."

The great hall of the castle was largely empty when Andrew made his way into it, alone and hungry. Most of the Lords in the castle had finished their meal already. Andrew walked with Ghost to the far end of the hall and sat down in the corner of a long trestle table. A servant took notice of his at once. "Your grace," he said warily, always keeping an eye on the white direwolf. "Is there anything we could get for you?"

"Something to break my fast and a tankard of northern ale would suffice." Andrew smiled at him.

When the good man came back with everything he asked, Ghost was already up on his feet smelling meat. The servant stumbled back, afraid of the direwolf and Andrew steadied him up, clapping his back lightly. "Good man," he told. "I can take it from here." When the servant left, Andrew sat down on the table and looked down at his wolf. "Here you go, boy." He threw a large chunk of meat to the wolf. "You didn't have to scare the man half to death for it."

Andrew sat there in the hall alone with his wolf. "Having a nice meal, Andrew," a familiar voice could be heard from behind. Andrew knew who it was even before he saw the man. "I did," he answered turning around to look at Lord Jon. He pushed the remains of breakfast out of the way when he had no more need for it.

Lord Arryn was wearing a doublet of cream and blue and a fine cloak trimmed with white fur. The Lord of the Eyrie gave him a soft smile as he sat down beside him. Lord Arryn leaned forward. "Andrew, when your father was a lad your age, or a bit younger, he once tried to jump off a cliff trying to save a runaway horse from my stables." A smile smile brushed the mouth of Lord Jon. "The boys had startled it off when we were out on a hunt. I believe it was Ser Samwell Stone's mount. Robert, your father and Elbert took off after the horse at once. I had asked my men to stand down, not wanting to risk any of my men dying for the sake of a horse. But the boys... they were at it never listening to my words. As the garron edged off the cliff however Robert and my nephew gave up the pursuit knowing there was nothing to be done for the poor animal after that. But Ned however, he was not ready to give up on the beast just then, even as it danced so close to death."

Andrew looked at the kind old man with grey eyes widened in surprise. He had never known this story. His father had never told him of this one. "Did he save the horse, my lord?" He asked Jon Arryn. He knew that his father had lived long enough to wed and bed his mother and sire Andrew upon her but he wanted to know if he had triumphed in his quest to save the horse.

"Aye, he did," the Lord of the Eyrie admitted, chucking lightly. "He always cared about the innocents, even if they were beasts lesser than us. When all my companions saw it that the time of the horse ended the moment it neared the edge, your father saw that he still had the chance to live. And that hope saved the horse that day."

Andrew smiled thinking that his father had done some reckless things in life as well. He had known King Eddard as the man he had become, not as the boy he had been in his youth. Still he didn't get why his father's foster father found the need to say this particular story to him. "I don't understand why you told that story to me now."

Jon Arryn smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. Though he was old, Andrew could still feel the strength in his arms. "You remind me so much of your father," Lord Jon said. "And I mean not just with the way you look like him, but in everything as well. I know what you did to your cousin in Winterfell. A most noble thing to do as your honour would have you to do. I taught your father the same when was in my halls and he did the same when Rhaegar Targaryen threatened his family and his kingdom. Thrice your father defeated him, yet every time he let him get away with his life.

Perhaps he thought it was not honourable to hurt a man alone and defeated. Perhaps he thought it wasn't acceptable to hurt his kin. . . Or perhaps he hoped that there was still a chance for Rhaegar to live and redeem himself, like the horse he saved and let him go because of it, whatever the reason your father might have had, it only managed to provide fatal results. His noblest deed cost him his life and if only things were done differently he would have been here with us now." The old man sighed sadly and looked down at the table.

"I don't want you to do the same mistake your father once did, son," Lord Jon clasped his shoulder. "When a snake has coiled itself around your leg, it's wise to cut it's head off and be done with it instead of hoping that it would let go on its own."

It made him feel odd. "Do you think showing mercy is a weakness?"

Jon Arryn did not even wait for Andrew to finish his question. "No, not at all," he said looking up at him. "But what good is mercy and peace when you are forced to take up your sword again as soon as you trade it for plowshare hoping to find some peace."

Thoughtful of the words he heard, Andrew could not deny the truth in those words. After all his father had to leave for war three times against the same enemy. "I am not hoping to make peace with Rhaegar Targaryen," said Andrew Stark. "He killed my father and my mother." And Joy. . . He held her name to his heart however where she belonged. He had not survived the gutters and canals of Braavos and the claws and flames of a dragon to come here and let Rhaegar live. No, Andrew had come here to make Rhaegar pay for his crimes and gods help anyone who dares to come between him and the dragon king. Any hopes of peace and mercy for the dragon had ended right when Rhaegar massacred his family in cold blood. He can surround himself with his endless armies and dragons, but no army in this world is going to stop me from killing him.

"Forgive me, Andrew," Lord Jon shifted in his seat, chuckling. "You and your father have a lot in common than a normal man would see with his naked eye. Do you know that?" He paused for a moment and then looked up at him. "You both lost your fathers to the mercy of a Targaryen king. You know that story, don't you?"

"The Mad King," Andrew knew that story. "The father of Rhaegar."

Andrew had known that story very well. It all had started there, the story which had led his father on his path in becoming a King, winning his independence from the Iron Throne. It had all started with the Mad King. His grandfather old Lord Rickard and his uncle Brandon and his wife had all been killed by Rhaegar's father Aerys Targaryen. His father rarely spoke of them but the gruesome details of their death was not a secret in Winterfell. All of it had happened before Andrew was born when the Mad King Aerys ruled the Seven Kingdoms. Rhaegar had gone into disappearance with Lyanna Stark and his uncle Brandon went to King's Landing to get her back. The Mad King had him arrested however and all the others who had accompanied him. Uncle Brandon was then strangled by order of the Mad King Aerys Targaryen only a few days after he was to wed Catelyn Tully of Riverrun. His grandfather had been forced to watch him die. The Mad King had then called for the heads of his father and his friend Lord Robert who were only saved because Lord Jon had called his banners in defence of them.

"The very one," Lord Arryn said. "When Brandon Stark left to King's Landing to get his sister back, he had other companions with him. Ethan Glover who was Brandon's squire, then the others, Jeffory Mallister, Kyle Royce, and mine own nephew and heir, Elbert Arryn. Aerys accused them of treason and summoned their fathers to court to answer the charge, with the sons as hostages. When they came, he had them murdered without trial. Fathers and sons both. Glover was the only one to survive."

"In truth there were some trials. Of a sort. Lord Rickard had demanded a trial by combat, and the Mad king granted the request. When your grandfather armoured himself as for battle, thinking to duel one of the Kingsguard, Aerys had other ideas. Instead they took Rickard Stark to the throne room and suspended him from the rafters while two of Aerys's pyromancers kindled a blaze beneath him. The king told him that fire was the champion of House Targaryen. So all Lord Rickard needed to do to prove himself innocent of treason was . . . not burn."

Andrew was confused. What did he have to do anything with a story? Did my father fought to avenge his father and brother? "Why do you say that story to me, my lord?"

Jon Arryn gave a short, sad chuckle. "Your grandfather went south once, to answer the summons of a king. He never came home again. Then your father did it again in a different time of a different king. He never came back as well. One was my friend and the other was my son and both never returned back from the South."

Arryn patted his shoulder lightly. "Now you are marching into the dragon's lair as well and I don't want you to repeat those mistakes of the past. Mistakes are never actually done until you fail to learn from them. Had I been any wiser I would have said the same to Ned when he went South instead of hoping that peace would be a sweeter fruit to have." The old lord sighed sadly. "Well, it doesn't do well to talk of what happened in the past. I couldn't save your father, but I could say this to you. Don't make the mistakes your father made."

  
It all made sense then. Father had gone South not for war, but for meeting with his family like his mother had said. She never told him of what the meeting was actually about. But he could see it all clearly before him now.

"I will keep that in mind," Andrew said finally. He turned to look at Jon Arryn and gave him a smile. "Thank you for that advice, my lord."

Lord Arryn patted his head gently. "Always," the old man said, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few life lessons for Andrew from Jon Arryn himself, the man who taught his father everything he knew. As I had already mentioned, the Winged Knights were modelled on the real world Winged Hussars from their arms and armour to their fighting style. 
> 
> I hope you guys like this chapter. Leave a comment and let me know what you think. As always thanks for reading my story and have a nice day. Good day and Stay safe.


	19. Chapter 19

_**Jon** _

Inside the manse, the air was heavy with the scent of spices, pinchfire and sweet lemon and cinnamon. They were escorted across the entry hall, where a mosaic of colored glass depicted the Doom of Valyria. Oil burned in black iron lanterns all along the walls. Beneath an arch of twining stone leaves, a couple of Unsullied stood on the flanks. The nine-towered manse of Illyrio Mopatis sat beside the waters of the bay, its high brick walls overgrown with pale ivy. It had been the biggest building Jon had seen in Pentos, far more larger than the mere brick houses that littered the streets around it. 

The Free Cities did always focus more on wealth and finer things in life and so was the man the Hand of the King was meeting now on his King's commands. The magister met him at a pillared courtyard overgrown in pale ivy. The sunlight painted the leaves in shades of bone and silver as the guests drifted among them. 

Jon doubted that his quest in the east would yield any results but he still had to try for his King's need. Magister Illyrio was a dealer in spices, gemstones, dragonbone, and other, less savoury things. He would not be the man one would like to come asking for an army but Jon Connington knew what Illyrio Mopatis was truly made of. 

He had friends in all of the Nine Free Cities, it was said, and even beyond, in Vaes Dothrak and the fabled lands beside the JadeSea. It was also said that he'd never had a friend he wouldn't cheerfully sell for the right price. Jon knew about the man with his dealings with Rhaegar Targaryen in the past. If it was in his say, he would have kept the man as far away as possible. But Jon couldn't question his King's decisions. What the King dreams, the Hand builds, that was what they said in the Seven Kingdoms. And now his king dreamed for the support of the wealth and swords of his friends from the east and it had fell to Jon to get it for him. But that didn't mean he trusted the magister. Any friend of Varys the Spider is someone Jon Connington would trust just as far as he could throw him.

Beneath the balcony where they met six cherry trees stood sentinel around a marble pool, their slender branches bare and brown. A boy stood on the water, poised to duel with a bravo's blade in hand. He was lithe and handsome, no older than sixteen, with straight blond hair that brushed his shoulders. So lifelike did he seem that it took the Hand a long moment to realize he was made of painted marble, though his sword shimmered like true steel. Across the pool stood a brick wall twelve feet high, with iron spikes along its top. Beyond that was the free city of Pentos. A sea of tiled rooftops crowded close around a bay. He saw square brick towers, a great red temple, a distant manse upon a hill. In the far distance, sunlight shimmered off deep water. Fishing boats were moving across the bay, their sails rippling in the wind, and he could see the masts of larger ships poking up along the shore. If only he could convince this one man, I could get Rhaegar a new fleet to make up for the one lost in Oldtown.

Pentos was a different place, different from King's Landing or the Stormlands. Even the air smells different here. Strange spices scented the chilly autumn wind, and he could hear faint cries drifting over the wall from the streets beyond. It sounded something like Valyrian, but he did not recognize more than one word in five. He had learned to read High Valyrian as a boy from the maester of Griffin's Roost, though what they spoke in the Nine Free Cities was not as original as the one spoken by the Dragonlords of the freehold. 

"So the King of the Seven Kingdoms need my help to put down the dog who threatens to bite his hand off," the magister of Pentos said. "I am a merchant, Lord Hand, not a warlord. I deal in wine and cheese and other lavish items, not soldiers. You should have gone to Braavos or Tyrosh or Volantis or any of the slaver cities if you wished to find an army for your king."

Jon had visited them on his way here. Half of them had given the same answer as this one did. It was all profit with the merchant princes of the Free Cities. Should a day ever dawn when Illyrio Mopatis saw more profit in a dead dragon than a live one, Jon had no doubt that they would soon find the wealth of Pentos turned against them, and his friends following him. 

"I had met with them on my way here," Jon said. "Lys and Tyrosh are lending their support. If you could offer your support then that would tilt the entire scale on our favour. We know your influence here in the east."

"The Arbor has the best navy in the Seven Kingdoms," Jon continued. "Half it it is trapped within the walls of Oldtown. If we could free them we'll put an armada together large enough to challenge the Braavosi fleet. For that we'll need to go in a warship, not fishing boats and pleasure barges."

"I have no warships. War is bad for trade. Many times I have told you, Illyrio Mopatis is a man of peace."

Illyrio Mopatis is a man of gold, the Hand of the King thought. But his gold could buy me all the ships and swords Rhaegar needs. "I have not asked you to take up a sword, only to lend us your ships and support."

He smiled modestly. "Of trading ships I have a few, that is so. Who can say how many? One may be sinking even now, in some stormy corner of the Summer Sea. On the morrow, another will fall afoul of corsairs. The next day, one of my captains may look at the wealth in his hold and think, All this should belong to me. Such are the perils of trade. Why, the longer we talk, the fewer ships I am likely to have. I grow poorer by the instant."

"Your king has a good nose in sniffing out where you could find support." Illyrio wiped his lips clean off the wine he was drinking. "But I'm afraid he has chosen the wrong friend to come to. I would rather sail my ships across the Jade Sea over to Yi-Ti where they make a golden vintage so fine that one sip makes all other wines taste like vinegar. I would sooner have my ships broke down in storms rather than sending them off to war to be burned and wrecked in return for nothing. You would do well to stay away from the Seven Kingdoms as well."

"I mean to sail to Westeros, and drink the wine of vengeance from the skull of the Andrew Stark with or without your help." Jon scratched his fiery beard with a certain determination. He felt suddenly uncertain about coming there. What was the purpose of sailing all the way here to the east only to get back empty handed. Empty handed when his king depended upon his success here. 

A single perfect drop of wine ran down the jiggling chin of Magister Illyrio. He looked up at Jon as if he was mocking or or if he was weighing up the truth in his words. "Suppose I get you the help you need, what am I going to receive in return for my help?"

Probably nothing, he wanted to say the truth. Rhaegar had sent him over to win them off to his cause but he had never said what offers he was making for this support of his friends from the east. The king had extended the call in the name of friendship but Illyrio would pay enough attention to such friendship as much as he does to horse piss. "His grace's friendship," the Hand of the King said. "It's not long before when King Rhaegar helped you in your city's war against Myr. You received the support of the Iron Throne when you needed it and we are expecting the same in return."

Illyrio laughed as if he knew the truth hidden beneath the ploy. In truth Rhaegar had muddled himself in the affairs of the east to cut down any ties the Northern Queen, Ashara Dayne had made with the North and the Free Cities. Myr and Braavos had been the cities to entertain closer ties with the North during the time of the Outlaw King. And his fall broke the back of any trade which centered between the North and the Free Cities. 

But the Dragonking had found it hard in himself to leave such friends alive since they could shelter any old loyalties tied with the dead. And with the boy escaped they could not risk it even for a bit especially when there could be a day when Myrish sellsails and the fleet of Braavos could come back to the doorstep of King's Landing raising the direwolf banner of House Stark. So when Pentos along with Tyrosh and Lys started their war against Myr to curb their growing power they had turned to the support of the Iron Throne, hoping to turn the King's old enmity with Eddard Stark onto his allies. Rhaegar had lent his support willingly and destroyed the ruling conclave of magisters and replaced them with his own friends. Every influential man in Myr who had extended their friendship with the Outlaw King had lost their life that day. 

When Braavos heard of what happened to Myr the Sealord must have known what was coming to him as well. Instead of bringing Fire and Blood to the island, Rhaegar extended the hand of friendship one which the Braavosi were quick to take upon. After all there is no trade to be done with dead men. 

"Even if I give you my ships and the ships of all my friends, you'll have no crew to sail them. The justice of your cause means naught to the common men of Pentos. Why should my sailors care who sits upon the throne of some kingdom at the edge of the world?"

"We will pay them to care."

"They don't love your gold enough to embrace death when they could earn more than that in my trading galleys without the risk of dying."

"Sellswords and sellsails can always do with more gold."

"That they may do," Illyrio acknowledged, "but so much of your gold will be wasted on the likes of sellswords and sellsails. They will turn back and run at the first sight of the Dragonslayer, if not before that. They will care more about your gold than your king's protection."

That annoyed Jon Connington more than anything. It was as if the man had already made up his mind to not lend any support to King Rhaegar. He was evading any offers Jon had made him and found issues with all. "If you wouldn't help, perhaps I should leave and ask for the help of Volantis?"

Illyrio gave a languid shrug. "They will give you nothing but flattery and lies. Volantis would never raise it's sails unless there is something in it for them. Unlike with Pentos or Tyrosh or Braavos your King has done nothing for the triarchs. The Seven Kingdoms mean nothing for Old Volantis."

Perhaps I should burn Pentos down and put Volantis in its position. Then they would be more than willing to help us out against the false King. "Perhaps I should just make an example out of you to these great magisters," Jon said impatient. "King Rhaegar never tolerates betrayal. Keep off from your word and I promise you that you will reap the rewards. When we finish with the traitor in the Seven Kingdoms, we will come for you with Fire and Blood. The dragon does not forget."

That seemed to amuse the lord of cheese no end. He slapped a meaty thigh and said, "You Westerosi are all the same. You sew some beast upon a scrap of silk, and suddenly you are all wolves or dragons or eagles. I have no doubt you have met a real dragon, my friend. They are big enough to drape cities with their shadows and breathe fire. Do you think our noble King Rhaegar can do either of those?"

The lords of the Seven Kingdoms did make rather much of their sigils, Jon had to admit. But he would not let this cheesemonger mock his King in front of him. "No, he couldn't" he conceded. "But he has the necessary dragons under his command to do that for him." 

"And still the Born King is very much alive and he is winning victories in the lands ruled by King Rhaegar and his dragons."

How are these stories getting across the seas so fast? The Hand of the King had no answer for that. The magisters of Myr had known it as well and so did the Archon of Tyrosh. And now the Pentoshi magister as well. He had to turn the tide soon enough or else he might lose the chance to set sail in the waters he has hoped to take. If they know we are losing they would not be so willing to help us. "For now," Jon said. "And with the help of the traitors. We will deal with him in short time with the dragons and with your help it would be much more quicker."

"There are those in Westeros who would say otherwise," Illyrio said. "Even here in Pentos there are those who say that killing the dragons was merely a good beginning."

They had best not say it in his grace's hearing, or they will find themselves armed and armoured to go do the job themselves. Jon took a deep sigh and looked up at the magister. "You had best be careful what you say of the royal family, magister. It is high treason to even talk of such things."

"What is treason to one king is the show of devotion of loyalty to another. In Pentos we have a prince, my friend. He presides at ball and feast and rides about the city in a palanquin of ivory and gold. Three heralds go before him with the golden scales of trade, the iron sword of war, and the silver scourge of justice. On the first day of each new year he must deflower the maid of the fields and the maid of the seas." Illyrio leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Yet should a crop fail or a war be lost, we cut his throat to appease the gods and choose a new prince from amongst the forty families."

The Lord Hand was unamused. "Remind me never to become the Prince of Pentos."

"Are your Seven Kingdoms so different? There is no peace in Westeros, no justice, no faith ... and soon enough, no food. When men are starving and sick of fear, they look for a saviour."

He had the truth of it, Jon knew at once. The best part of the Seven Kingdoms might have broken into two factions but the smallfolk cared not for who sit the Iron Throne. The common people pray for rain, healthy children, and a summer that never ends. It is no matter to them if the high lords play their game of thrones, so long as they are left in peace. They never are. "We could make Rhaegar that saviour with your help," Jon said. "If you could lent your support."

Illyrio opened his arms. "I could give you the ships and the food, but you should look for soldiers elsewhere."

You will get no help in this city, Lord Hand." Illyrio Mopatis took an onion between thumb and forefinger. "Each day you spend here wasting your time on finding sellswords and sellsails lets the Dragonslayer move up against your king little by little and the Targaryens hold on the Iron Throne slipping away slowly." 

There was wisdom in those words, Jon thought. He was getting no help from Pentos, only wasting his time. He was getting more convinced of that than the day before. The Prince of Pentos saw no farther than the walls of his city as long as there was something in it for him. 

"What do you suggest?" Jon asked. 

"Get your ships and change course for Slaver's Bay."

Jon was not certain he liked the sound of that at all. Everything he'd ever heard of the flesh marts in the great slave cities of Yunkai, Meereen, and Astapor was plainly unacceptable and detestable. "What is there for us in Slaver's Bay?"

"An army," said Magister Illyrio. "One that would be much more stronger and fiercer than any sellswords I could buy for you. If pit fighters are much to your liking you can buy hundreds and thousands out of the fighting pits of Meereen . . . but it is Astapor where the real prize stands. In Astapor you can buy Unsullied."

"The slaves in the spiked bronze hats?" Jon had seen Unsullied guards in the Free Cities, posted at the gates of magisters, archons, and dynasts. He knew what they were made of. But the notion of bringing a slave army into Westeros didn't sit well with him. "Why should I want Unsullied and any slave army? King Rhaegar leads free men into battle, not slaves."

"Slavery is forbidden in Pentos, by the terms of the treaty the Braavosi imposed on us a hundred years ago. Still, it's almost as if there are five slaves for every free man in the city. And we use the unsullied to guard our homes as well." Illyrio gave a ponderous half bow. The fat man's eyes glittered like the gemstones on his fingers. "It seems to me that his grace lacks for free men to do his battles," Illyrio said. "Else you wouldn't be here now. Besides he had made common cause with the wise masters before."

That Jon Connington could not deny. His king's friendships had extended so far to the east that he meddled with the slaver cities and it's masters as a result his involvements across the Narrow Sea. The unsullied who tore down the walls of Myr had acted under his commands. 

Illyrio tore a chunk of a black bread and put it inside his mouth. "If it's any comfort for you they would not be slaves once you buy them off from the slavers. They would be free men, as free as any sellswords you could get. Only these would fear neither dragons nor dragonslayers."

That. . . could work, Jon Connington knew. The magister was not as devious and gluttonous as he had thought him to be. Illyrio was clever, he will give him that. "That could work," the King's Hand said. 

"So that's it," the magister slapped his large belly and laughed heartily. "I could give you my wealth to by the Unsullied and the ships to get them back onto Westeros. Between the Unsullied, the sellswords and our combined fleet we should be able to deal with the Dragonslayer with ease."

Jon could not join onto his happiness and laughter for he was too bothered by the notion of what Illyrio Mopatis was going to ask in return for his help. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon is gathering armies and ships from the east for his Dragonking, but will he succeed in his endeavours and get back to Westeros in time? And Illyrio, his willingness to help House Targaryen has always been a mystery. I hope you guys liked this chapter. Leave a comment and let me know what you thought. I am really interested in reading your thoughts about it.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys like it. Took me a hard time to get it out. Let me know your thoughts in the comments. I'd love to hear your thoughts. So thank you for reading my story and have a nice day. Stay safe.


End file.
